


Infamia

by Mr_CSI, thisisforyou



Series: Infamia 'verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU fanfiction, Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Ancient Rome, Gladiators, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:49:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 71,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_CSI/pseuds/Mr_CSI, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisforyou/pseuds/thisisforyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ancient Roman AU. After his wife's brutal murder, John Watson shuns society and becomes a gladiator. He didn't expect to catch the attention of the Emperor, Sherlock Holmes himself... Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was co-written by myself (thisisforyou) and my flatmate (nicknamed Mr. CSI by Mirith Griffin). He wrote the chapters from John's POV (so, this one, chapter three, etc) and I wrote the ones from Sherlock's (two, four, etc). We also role-played most of the dialogue (and the physicality, which led to some awkward situations involving people walking in on us in compromising positions). Undying thanks to everyone who has helped us with the history; we tried to make it as accurate as possible.
> 
> Russian translation by the absolutely incredible sihaya available [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/3492003).

_Rome, 134CE_

The noise was overwhelming. 

The first round had not yet begun, and still the walls of the stadium shook with screams and cheers; it had quickly become impossible to distinguish the jeers of the young men at the front from the calls and worried screams of the women further towards the back and the babble of excited citizens attempting to be heard over the rest of the noise. The excited atmosphere was so thick one could almost reach out and pluck it from the air.

In the cage below the stands, John Watson bowed his head. It was difficult to clear one’s mind in such an atmosphere, but that was often how he worked best. His head hummed with adrenaline until he could barely think of anything but what awaited him outside.

“You nervous, Watson?” one of the others asked, jerking their shoulder forwards to bump his viciously.

John smiled benignly at them. “What have I got to be nervous about?” he replied. 

The man smirked cruelly at him; from what John had heard in the pit beforehand, amid sniggers and half-baked insinuations that he himself would not last, he was the most experienced gladiator out there. He was cocky and overconfident, and John had noticed him on the walk to the cages favouring his left ankle. “Sherlock Holmes is out there.”

John’s heartbeat picked up. _Sherlock Holmes_. What was he doing here? John was not the only new face on the program today, and the Emperor did not usually make an appearance at any but the greatest, most experienced bouts. And yet – Sherlock Holmes had been Emperor for almost ten years now, since his father died and his elder brother abdicated, and he had never seemed to take the traditional route in anything.  That was a part of why the people loved him.

Even so, John had not heard of him attending the weekly bouts of sparring unless the games had been designed specifically for him; especially not without grand pomp and ceremony announcing his attendance. Something else must have been going on, and John didn't want to be a part of any of it.

“Fine,” he said instead, in a tone that plainly meant _we’re done here_. The other man snorted a fragment of mucus from his nose and shifted from foot to foot. It was evident that he had more to say, but John had denied him the opportunity. He let one corner of his thin lips slide upwards in a smirk.

John Watson shook his head and tried to move away, but the bigger man threw out a hand that caught him on the shoulder, the left one already thick with knotted tissue from a long-ago wound. “He will hate you,” the bulky man spat, gobbets of saliva landing at John’s feet. “They will all hate you. You used to be one of them, but you chose to be nothing. All because someone put paid to your whore of a wife.”

John’s mind wandered with startling speed.

_Mary, dressed in white and blazing orange like the setting of a thousand suns, none so radiant as the light welling in her eyes framed by painfully scraped-back braids and the ceremonial flammeum flowing in the breeze. Their wedding night, and she so mirthful, so open. Her father’s laugh as the priest stumbled over a word. Her own clear, certain voice._ Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia. As you are my man, so too am I your woman. _The candlelight in the main room of the house they would share, flickering over her face as he reached up to let her braids tumble about her cheekbones, that thick auburn hair he had desired from the day he set eyes upon her and now was his to run his fingers through, to pull her to his chest and relish the sigh and the smile as she leaned against him._

_ Mary, her delicate hands buried in flour and egg and sesame, white smudged across her cheekbones as she looked up at him; cheeks browned by the sun and reddened by the fire in the hearth, small lips plump from where they had been bitten in exertion and widening into a smile as she saw him in the doorway, shaking the dough from her fingernails as she ran to embrace him, an urge that had become a tradition after many months of happy marriage. John had never wanted anything else. _

_ Mary, her freckly face tinged with tears, her gorgeous curls sticking to her forehead and dark with sweat as the midwife removed the body of their stillborn child. The feel of her body, the heaving of her sobs as he pulled her to him. _

_ Mary, Mary, Mary. _

_ Mary, her blue eyes wide and unseeing, the new sun casting unhealthy shadows on the waxy skin of her once-luxurious cheekbones as it rose above the houses piled on either side of her body, the stench and slip of her blood dark against the filthy dust of the road, the one responsible nowhere to be seen. The sound of his scream as it bounced around the tiny alleyway with nowhere to go. _

_ Mary, the feeling of having betrayed her when the last man who had stood by him stared at him with deep dark eyes and told him to give up, to start a new life.  _

John Watson raised his eyes at the hulking, muscled gladiator before him and turned away. The man expelled a noise of outrage and disappointment, but he seemed to understand the unspoken message. _Save it for the pit_.

He knew that this was not what the man had meant, those months ago, when he had spoken of a new life. That the suggestion of beginning anew was not meant to cause him to shrug off the remains of his family and his very rights as a citizen of Rome. But he _needed_ this. The seven months since Mary was murdered and he applied to the district lanista to become a gladiator cleansed his mind and worked his body until it sweated and ached. The _infamia_ that followed men who rescinded their citizenship in such a manner hardly mattered to him when he had nothing left to live for except this: the call of battle, the blood of fallen men. Let the city despise him. Let Sherlock Holmes and all his noblemen spit on him. 

And yet… 

John had had his own encounters with the Emperor already. Sherlock Holmes was nothing like his father. 

The lanista had spoken of man’s inherent need to do well, to impress, to better oneself and one’s circumstances, all the while staring at John out of the corner of his eyes like he was a perversion of the very fabric of nature. 

And yet. He had thought it would not matter whether he did well in the pits, but he did not want to die in front of Sherlock Holmes. In front of Sherlock Holmes, he _wanted_ to do well, to impress. To make an impression on the man, the way his Emperor had made an impression upon him.

_ Mary, just a child, sobbing in the street; John, barely a man, watching in awe as a dark-haired youth dressed in rich purple lowered a pale hand to stroke her cheek in comfort. _

He looked up sharply as the lanista rattled the bars of the cage to call for quiet before stepping in himself, folding his arms until he had ensured that he possessed everyone’s attention. Dimmock was small for a lanista, his dark eyes severe as they swept over the fighting men, his bare torso whip-corded with muscle. 

“Yes,” he said finally, his voice clear and cutting. “The Emperor is in the audience. Show him the respect he is to be afforded, or you may find your dance in the arena shorter than even some of you expected.” He lowered his sharp eyes until they found John’s. A few of the others sniggered. 

The bulky man who had challenged John earlier scuffed his feet against the sand. “Why _is_ his Excellency gracing us with his presence?”

Dimmock’s eyes snapped to him. “I have not been informed,” he said quietly. “But I believe he is looking to recruit new arenarii for his court. I do not need to tell any of you how much glory this would afford you.”

John could not quite stop the thrill from racing down his spine. To be a gladiator in the Emperor’s court would mean fighting with men who really understood what they were doing, not men like these, who had survived the pits thus far on instinct and a strong shield arm. He looked back up at the lanista, his hazel eyes burning with determination. 

A horn sounded outside the cage. 

Shoulders bumped and jostled him as he turned to make his way out into the pit; John’s eyes flickered across the men’s bodies, highlighting pressure points and major arteries and weak points from rigorous training. 

They weren’t going to know what hit them.


	2. Chapter 2

"So," the Emperor said brightly, settling his sitbones into a more comfortable position on the cushion, "anyone I should be looking out for?"

Lestrade looked down at the tablet in his hands, frowning. "There will be a lot of inexperience out there, my Lord. Many of them have never fought before." He had protested rather hard over their attending this bout in the first place, probably for this reason. Sherlock smirked. "You may be interested in Anderson, though, my Lord – he has apparently survived this far by running away."

He made a face; that sounded more cowardly than interesting. "Boring. Anything else?"

"One auctoratus," Lestrade added at the prompt. Sherlock looked at him in interest; auctorati, the volunteer gladiators, were always interesting. "You might have heard of him, actually. John Watson, his wife was murdered five months ago. It is his first bout as an arenarius."

Sherlock thought back. "Watson," he mused. " _Mary_ Watson? The woman whose stomach had been –"

"Yes," the lanista cut him off, looking slightly queasy. Sherlock quirked his lips into a smile again: Lestrade had seen all kinds of injuries and violent deaths. Mary Watson had been something especially depraved, and Sherlock remembered it well. He hadn't actually seen the body, but people had described it to him. "They never found out who did it."

The Emperor's green-grey eyes narrowed. It had seemed odd from the start, a murder that distinctive and nobody to blame. "No wonder he came here," Sherlock commented idly. "Is he fighting as a _dimachaerus?_ "

Lestrade looked surprised. "Yes, my Lord."

Sherlock nodded. "He has nothing to lose. He welcomes the danger." He couldn't stop himself – and wasn't in the habit of trying – from sitting up closer to the edge of the box, peering at the cage on the other side of the arena. "He enjoys the adrenaline."

A _dimachaerus_ fought with two swords and no shield, against men with often longer weapons and heavy shields. Sherlock smiled again. This could get interesting.

"I am not sure I approve of this kind of fighter in your court," the silvery voice interjected from the corner of the box. Sherlock turned a long-suffering expression on his brother. "Although, you already know my opinion on having fighters in the court at all."

He rolled his eyes. "And that is why you sit behind me and not in front of me," he reminded him. "The people expect it. Think of it as an exercise in strategy if it offends you, Mycroft."

The elder Holmes lifted an eyebrow at his brother. "An exercise in strategy wherein innocent men are killed," he replied idly.

"They are gladiators," Sherlock returned. "By definition, none of them are innocent."

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, but whatever rebuttal he came up with was drowned by the horns surrounding the box, and the swell of the cheers from the stands, so loud it was almost a visible wave of sound. Mycroft grimaced. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

There were fifteen of them. Sherlock guessed that six of them were seasoned fighters, whether from previous bouts in the arena or from serving in the military in their life before the arena. Nine of them were foreign, slaves captured from a previous army's conquests elsewhere.

John Watson was easy enough to spot; his lack of a shield made him stand out among the others. Anderson, too, he picked straight away, slinking at the back of the group with his large round shield held up around his face.

Sherlock cast his eyes back to Lestrade, whose dark eyes were flickering quickly between the arenarii below, a critical frown on his face. He'd always thought his lanista was strangely attractive, handsome in a rough, masculine sort of way. Or maybe it was simply the way he wielded a sword; Sherlock had always known he had strange tastes. Another reason, guiltily, that he watched the gladiators with such fervour. Or perhaps it was simply familiarity and admiration: Lestrade had been a part of the court – first as a gladiator himself, and then as the court lanista – for as long as he could remember, and as a child he had been fascinated by him.

The older man's eyes landed on Watson and the frown intensified, his eyes narrowing in interest. Evidently Lestrade, too, saw something different about the auctoratus. He let his lips rise into a smirk, and his hand rise into the signal for the trumpeters to start the fight.

The gladiators had positioned themselves a reasonable distance apart, and at the trumpet they started towards each other, some lumbering and confident, others hesitant and jumpy.

The people, Sherlock knew, watched the gladiators out of a frenzied lust for blood; the screams of the audience all but drowned out the screams of the fallen fighters on the sand. The primal nature of it, of desperate men fighting for survival and all too often not succeeding, encouraged such a similarly primal reaction from the watching city that smart women tended to avoid the thick of the crowds as unsafe. And yet… above that primal level, the smell of blood and the hum of adrenaline, Sherlock enjoyed watching how individual men thought and fought their way out of the arena. There was a moment, with the good ones, where one could see strategy flicker behind their eyes, a split-second pause between the idea and the execution when Sherlock could predict each move a man would make and each counterstrike from his opponent. In this moment his breath caught and the anticipation filled his limbs and his head with blissful static.

He didn't have the same reaction to the games as the public did, but that didn't matter; he enjoyed them, and the people enjoyed them, and that seemed to be enough.

Mycroft, on the other hand, abhorred the games. Sherlock often wondered how his brother had grown up the way he did in the city that they lived in; he'd never met anyone else who thought quite like him. He'd managed to keep a reasonably normal appearance to their father, but to Sherlock in private he'd admitted that the bloodlust and fury that fueled the people of Rome confused, disgusted and sometimes intimidated him. Mycroft personified calm and reasonable thinking, which was useful in the tactical part of ruling the city – and half the Known World – but not terribly personable to a public ruled by passion.

Sherlock hadn't been _expecting_ his brother to abdicate the Empire to him, but he had to admit he wasn't entirely surprised that he had. Mycroft understood the importance of having a leader the city could get behind. And Sherlock understood what made the people live happily from day to day. So having Sherlock on the throne, at least ostensibly, made sense.

One of the gladiators – _first time in the arena, Croatian, some military experience, overconfident –_ snapped under the tension and let out a guttural roar, rushing at one of the other fighters with his sword held high over his head. The man he had rushed at stood back, his shield held loosely to one side, sword twitching in his right hand. Sherlock risked another glance at Lestrade, who had sat back, shaking his head.

His face twitched into a smile as the stationary gladiator sprang forwards suddenly and slashed a line along the Croatian warrior's stomach, propelling the man back slightly before he collapsed to the sand. The lanista shook his head sadly. "It is the pressure," he commented lowly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You must be able to handle the pressure of thousands of people wanting you dead, and come out on the other side. It is not just about being able to hold a sword. It is the mental side that conquers them."

The burly man who had so neatly dispatched the Croatian had turned in a slow circle – acknowledging the crowd, who were screaming praise of the warrior they'd evidently encountered before – and settled to face John Watson, who was almost absently watching Anderson shy away from a Briton who was stalking him. Sherlock snorted.

The stringy, pale man's creeping led him backwards towards Watson; the auctoratus flicked his sword into an upright position. Seeing what he intended, Sherlock let out a dry laugh; after a moment, Anderson's retreating back gently prodded into the point of the sword. Jumping, the taller man spun around. Watson cracked a sudden, jovial smile; snarling, Anderson hefted his shield and swung his sword into an offensive position, leaving his back unguarded against the Briton he'd been running from in the first place.

It hardly took moments before the lanky body folded undignifiedly into the sand, the spray of red decorating the leather undergarments of the men on either side. Lestrade tutted as the crowd erupted into cheers. "About bloody time," he growled. Sherlock chuckled.

Watson turned his blithely cheerful smile on the Briton now, as the solid ginger-haired man stepped over the body between them, his broad-bladed sword steady. Sherlock sent the lanista another glance; the dimachaerus didn't look as though he was going to defend himself. Was that his purpose in becoming a gladiator? The most public suicide imaginable?

Then quite suddenly, the two short swords flicked up to block the blow from the Briton. Watson moved so quickly it was difficult to keep track, the blade in his left hand disengaging from the block to a quick stab at his opponent's stomach. The Briton was lucky he was quick, jumping back hurriedly out of the reach of the swinging blades, but Watson was quicker; his two swords flicked without pause, driving the Briton backwards, further and further. Sherlock tried to think back to the moment where Watson had paused to consider his strategy, but couldn't find it; the shadowed eyes had seemed rather blissfully blank.

Watching the disturbingly fast, focused attack on the unsuspecting warrior, Sherlock felt his groin begin to stir and swell under his toga.

Lestrade took a sharp breath in beside him. "Interesting. I have never seen that before." Sherlock quirked a grin at him, noticing that even Mycroft was on the edge of his seat as the crowd screamed. Most of them were yelling for the Briton to pull himself together, but that was to be expected. Auctorati were always unpopular when they started out; the city was disinclined to like someone who had chosen this life instead of one among them, and it took time to regain their favour.

John Watson, though, if he carried on like this, was well on his way.

The other gladiators – three more of which were now bleeding out into the sand – started to catch on to what was happening and circle around the two, waiting for one or other of them to make a mistake. Sherlock narrowed his eyes; many of them were watching Watson because his back was completely unguarded without a shield, but from the box Sherlock could see his eyes flicking from the Briton to the others surrounding him, keeping them on the periphery.

Suddenly one of the fighters seemed to come too close; Watson lashed out with his left hand, one solid, precise stroke that hit the jugular vein in the warrior's throat. The crowd howled in despair; apparently he had been one of the favourites. Sherlock smirked.

Seeing an opportunity with only one arm engaged in defence, the Briton twisted quickly out of the reach of the knife and slung his own in a desperate, crushing blow to the head. Watson reacted seemingly without thinking, raising both his swords in a cross to block the blow, then quickly disengaging and slashing at the warrior's legs.

As the man fell and the others stepped away, Sherlock saw that Watson had neatly disabled the man by severing the tendons above his kneecaps. Lestrade whistled appreciatively. Sherlock frowned; had he done that on purpose, or was that sheer bloody luck?

The spectacle done with, the fight progressed, but Sherlock hardly paid the others any attention, watching Watson carefully to try and catch that moment of thought where his eyes and peripheral limbs twitched slightly and betrayed the plans dancing around his brain. Each time, though, if the dimachaerus made such a movement at all, it was too minute for Sherlock to pick up from the box. All the warning each new opponent was given that Watson was about to strike was a split-second tensing of his muscles.

Soon enough, Watson stood in the arena with only one other man while Sherlock watched, panting slightly and trying to hide his burgeoning erection from his brother.

Watson and the tanned, burly man drew closer, circling among the jeers and catcalls from the crowd; the other man was clearly a seasoned fighter and already a crowd favourite, but many people seemed to have realised that the stocky Roman possessed a startling amount of talent and Watson was not unsupported. As they approached each other, the burly man shouted something which was swallowed by the crowd; Sherlock didn't catch it, but he saw the shorter man's face twist into a snarl of rage. Those eyes – he couldn't make out what colour they were – flickered quickly over the man's body, up and down, lingering on his stomach, carotid artery point, jugular. Sherlock's own eyes widened; he _must_ have some kind of medical background.

"Do you know what his occupation was, Lestrade?" he asked briskly.

The lanista looked surprised. "I am afraid not, my Lord."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at them. "He has very clear anatomical knowledge." The bigger gladiator jerked forwards in a sharp feint, laughing easily and throwing what was clearly another jibe at the shorter man which Watson ignored, legs set in readiness. Sherlock crossed his legs to hide his arousal, not looking back to see whether Mycroft had noticed the gesture. "There are few occupations which afford such education; it would be all the more remarkable if a physician had chosen to –"

He cut off abruptly as Watson finally lunged, the sun glancing briefly off his twin blades as they swung around, before the opponent shrieked and dropped his weapon. Blood spurted out of his wrist; Lestrade made a noise of extreme interest. The blow had cut the tendon that controlled the thumb: the gladiator would never fight again.

Wisely, the defeated warrior dropped his shield and held up his free hand in the signal for defeat, Watson's blades both pointed at his throat.

"Him," Sherlock breathed, leaning over the edge of the box, green-grey eyes blazing and fixed on the dimachaerus staring determinedly back up at him. "I want him."


	3. Chapter 3

Five days passed before Dimmock told him he was moving.

"The Emperor's lanista is a man named Lestrade," the small man told him, neatly and efficiently wrapping John's sword in linen for the walk. "He will accompany you there and show you where you will sleep." His dark eyes shot up to meet John's. "Do not think you will enjoy better living conditions there, Watson," he said sharply. "Lestrade has been at the Emperor's court for almost twenty years. He does not believe in soft treatment."

John tried to smile, but the lanista had already looked away, discarding John's sword and picking up the other one, twisting linen around his palms. "I am capable of wrapping my own sword, sir," he reminded him. Dimmock looked up, his eyes scathing. John smiled as the man thrust the blade in his direction.

For the briefest of moments, the smaller man looked as though he was struggling. Then he said quickly, "You fought well. I was pleasantly surprised. But what you did to the two men you did not kill was unnecessarily cruel."

Confused, John blinked. "One of them was condemned to death anyway - I had no better shot," he protested. Dimmock held up a hand.

"And the other is perfectly fine, apart from the fact that he can no longer use the thumb on his right hand to hold sword or shield. To men like us, Watson, such a fate is worse than death."

John allowed himself a wan smile. "He was a cruel man, sir."

Dimmock dipped his head in acknowledgement, his own smile oddly incongruent to the harshness in his eyes. "But an exceptional gladiator."

He had drawn breath to reply when the bars of the gate clattered against the wall; John looked up to see a stocky, silvery-haired man wincing at the noise as he leaned against the gate. When he realised he'd been noticed, he caught the lanista's eyes and smiled tightly. John glanced at Dimmock to see him return the expression. It was easy to tell the two men were not friends.

"Lestrade," Dimmock grated out through tightly-clenched teeth. John couldn't help the smile etching itself across his face at the lanista's discomfort; if his wide grin was anything to go by, neither could Lestrade.

He nodded sharply. "Dimmock." His dark eyes - a shade lighter than Dimmock's, which somehow made them volumes warmer - slid slowly over John's body before resting on his face. "John Watson, is it not?"

John smiled as politely as he could manage. "Yes, sir."

"Right. Fantastic. Are you ready? I'm afraid we have something of a time to keep." In reply, John hefted his small pile of clothing topped with his two swords and the oils used to clean them. Lestrade cracked an almighty grin. "Fantastic," he repeated.

The man's manner was infectious. It was extremely difficult not to smile back as he turned to Dimmock. "Thank you, sir," he said quietly. However grudgingly, the lanista had taken him in and trained him, and gratitude was due. Dimmock raised an eyebrow and nodded.

"Good luck, Watson," he said shortly. Lestrade's mouth twitched slightly as John stepped away from Dimmock, joining him at the door. The Emperor's lanista cocked a lazy half-salute at the smaller man, and then led John out of the gate and across the arena.

When they were out of earshot, the silver-haired man let out a chuckle. "He always looks like someone has rammed something up his arse," he commented lightly. John almost stopped walking, shocked. "Authority means too much to that man," Lestrade continued, as though unaware of his quarry's shock. "Needs to be knocked down a peg. Do you prefer John, or is Watson all right?"

Blinking quickly, it took John a moment to stammer out, "I... well, I prefer John, sir, but..."

"Right, well, John it is then," he said simply.

The walk to the court was long; most festival parades went from the court to the circus arena, so the route between the two wound its way through most of the centre of Rome. John had made the walk before, and yet it had never seemed so long as with the Emperor's lanista making alarmingly comfortable conversation with him as they walked. At one point, the man even stopped and offered to carry some of his belongings for him.

John stopped and stared at him, and Lestrade shook with a lazy chuckle. "Forgive me," he said between rumbles of laughter. "My style is somewhat different from Dimmock's, I believe. I will be honest with you, John: you are a gladiator. It is unlikely you will live to see the next Saturnalia. Call it a weakness if you will, but I aim to make your last months as pleasant as possible." He shot another scintillating grin. "And, of course, if you do _not_ die, hopefully you will look on me with some sort of fondness. A seasoned gladiator can be a handy man to have on your side. I should know, I am one."

Once again, his good humour was infectious, and John found himself grinning and chuckling along with the older man. Lestrade quickly broke that good humour by interjecting with, "Oh, and I should warn you, you are likely to meet the Emperor at some point soon. He has a certain fondness for the games, and likes to know each of his gladiators by name."

Unsurprisingly, John stopped dead. "The _Emperor?_ " he gulped out. He'd been filled with anticipation all morning until it felt as though his stomach was a pit of worms just at the thought of fighting in front of Sherlock Homes again. Now he was supposed to actually _meet_ the man, face to face?

"Yes. He is closely concerned with the way the circuses are run. I would say his constant presence was irritating if he were anyone else. You may want to attempt to get used to him, it is likely he will be around a lot."

John snorted. "Right. Get used to the Emperor. That will happen."

Lestrade threw his head back and positively _guffawed_. "And you have not even met him yet."

* * *

John barely had any time to settle before he was summoned out to the court arena, the noon bell ringing in his ears. He was surprised to find when he arrived that the arena was empty but for Lestrade, standing in the middle of the sand and twisting a sword around in one hand. The arena itself was smaller than he expected, too, the stone tiers of the stands only three rows high. He wondered how many people were expected to watch.

Lestrade smiled at him as he approached, lowering the sword to point harmlessly at the ground. John smiled back.

"Right now, I just want to see what you can do," the lanista said once he had reached hearing distance. "Many of the fights in this arena are not intended to kill, but merely to show your style and prowess in front of some very powerful people. Today I want you to experience that without so much pressure."

John grinned. "In front of powerful people?" The silver-haired lanista smirked back and jerked his head in the direction of the stands.

Sitting on the top tier, midway between the gates at either side of the arena, leaning back on his elbows, was Sherlock Holmes.

He sank onto one knee immediately, averting his eyes. Lestrade chuckled. "Do not worry, John. He merely intends to watch for now. When we are finished - and we likely will not be long - he may wish to talk to you. He is not so scary as you might think."

Personally, John doubted that he would be any less intimidated when the moment came. He allowed himself another brief glance towards the man; now that he knew he was there, he was impossible to miss, the purple and white of his toga stark against the grey stone of the stands. It was enormously distracting.

But he could not afford to think about it, because Lestrade had changed his grip on the broadsword he was holding, and John had to quickly flick his own sword - the man who had fetched him had instructed him to bring only one - above his head to block the sudden swing he knew was coming. He had to divert a considerable amount of focus to not allowing his eyes to stray to the Emperor, to not check obsessively whether the tall, pale man was shaking his head in disappointment or had lost interest in the fight completely.

The lanista was a quick and strong swordsman, though, and he needed to keep his eyes on him, to sense the tenses and changes in his muscle that pre-empted each movement a moment before the man moved so that John could block and parry and counter-strike in ways the older man would not expect. The last time he had wanted to impress the people around him so much, he mused somewhere in the middle, was when he asked Mary's parents for her hand in marriage.

Lestrade pushed him until the two men were covered in a light sheen of sweat and the old wound etched into John's shoulder had started up a low, throbbing ache. After a while, he wondered if he would need to train like this every day; wondered, for a moment or two, whether he would be able to handle the Emperor's court after all.

Then the older man stopped and stepped away, holding up a hand to stop. Panting, John lowered his own sword, jumping when the hollow sound of applause echoed out through the arena as Sherlock Holmes stood up.

"Magnificent," he called, his deep voice resonating incredibly through the space. "From both of you. I did not know you still had it in you, old man."

Lestrade made a rather impolite face at his Emperor while John looked on in shock, watching with growing terror as the man skipped lightly down the tiers and made his way across the sand.

"May I?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at Lestrade. Close to, his voice was a low, pleasant rumble that made something in John's chest spread warmth right down to his fingertips.

The lanista nodded, stepping back. "Of course, my Lord."

John dropped respectfully back to one knee in front of the Emperor as he approached; Sherlock Holmes lifted a facetious eyebrow at Lestrade before rolling his eyes at the prostrate gladiator. "Oh, Jupiter," he said dryly. "Get up." John hastily recovered his footing, keeping his eyes averted. "John Watson, is it?"

"Yes, my Lord."

He smiled softly. "I am sure you have realised that your performance in the arena impressed me."

John bowed his head graciously. "Thank you, my Lord."

The Emperor tilted his head to one side as John finally looked up. "May I ask where you gained your impressive knowledge of human anatomy?"

He let the corners of his mouth smile. Of _course_ the Emperor would notice. "I... find it interesting, my Lord. I always have. When I was younger I insisted the physician on our street teach me the things that he knew. I have learned more since then from study. I served in the military for a very short period of time where I had the opportunity to better my anatomical and medical knowledge."

"And that would be where you gained the wound to your shoulder?" the Emperor asked, one dark eyebrow arching into his hairline.

"Yes, my Lord," John confirmed quietly, attempting to hold back the automatic movement of his right hand to rub the mesh of scar-tissue. "At Ctesiphon."

The other caterpillar-like eyebrow joined the first, frost-coloured eyes flashing. "Ah." John risked meeting that brilliant gaze; Sherlock Holmes smiled kindly. "You come across as a remarkable man, Watson. I am confident you will do well in my court."

Surprised, John let slip a brief boyish grin. "Thank you, my Lord. I will do my best."

The taller man seemed to hesitate for a moment, his smile faltering, before it hitched up into a grin to match his own. "See that you do," he said, his deep voice rumbling with good nature. "I look forward to it." His sharp eyes flicked quickly back up to the lanista behind him, the smile widening for an instant before vanishing. "Thank you, Lestrade. You may continue."

The two fighters watched in silence as the tall Emperor strode away across the sand. "What was that?" John asked finally, when the iron grate door had creaked shut behind him.

Lestrade chuckled. "That was Sherlock Holmes. He likes you."

"I did get that impression," John remarked, turning back to see the lanista grinning at him. "I cannot imagine why."

The older man rolled his shoulders into an easy shrug. "I was impressed by your performance too. None of us were expecting anything like it. Your disabling of the tendons in that last man's wrist was masterful."

John smiled, thinking of Dimmock's reaction. "He spent the entire time in the cages throwing insults at me. It was difficult to resist cutting off the hand entirely."

He was rewarded with a grating sort of laugh from the lanista and a solid hand on his back. "Just be sure you do not get overconfident. The men in my arena know how to fight better than the rag-tag bunch in Dimmock's." The silver-haired fighter drew his sword again, moving away from John but not taking a preparatory stance, his face calm with contemplation. "I have never seen his Excellency react to anyone quite the way he seemed to react to you," he said slowly.

"Are you and the Emperor close?" John ventured bravely. Lestrade's dark eyes suddenly met his, sharp and piercing. "Sorry," he backtracked. "I simply noticed the two of you seem more familiar than is perhaps customary for Emperor and lanista _?_ "

Lestrade grinned slowly. "Yes, I suppose. I got to know him as the child that would _not_ grow up to rule, so perhaps my worries for propriety were less. I came to the court when I was twenty. Even at five years old, Sherlock - _his Excellency_ was interested in everything, us gladiators no exception. When he was ten he begged me to teach him how to handle a sword. Had I known then that he would become Emperor perhaps I would not have done it." The smile on his face adopted a faraway quality; John could not help but smile with him, thinking of a young, gangly Sherlock Holmes with unruly dark curls struggling to hold up a sword. "I thought it best he knew how to handle himself. He ran around with no thought for his own safety. And I think I liked that he seemed to find me... _fascinating_."

He looked up at John suddenly. "Sorry. I think sometimes that I really have lived a remarkable life." The hand holding his sword began to twist and flick the blade nervously as the lanista seemed to churn something around in his mind. "What did you think of him?" he asked finally.

John could hardly help the smile. "He seemed incredibly... human."

The lanista nodded, grinning. "He is. That, I think, is why we love him. He has dreams, and fears, and desires just like the rest of us." Quite suddenly, the older man flicked his sword back into its sheath at his belt. "Actually. Perhaps... I would not be surprised if he were to request some form of closer acquaintance with you." John frowned, attempting to decipher _closer acquaintance._ Did he mean that John would be required to entertain the Emperor? Or teach him, as Lestrade himself had previously? Or... "He will always give you ample opportunity to say 'no'," Lestrade continued, frowning slightly.

John grimaced. "I am afraid saying 'no' has never been a strength of mine," he admitted.

"Perhaps," Lestrade acknowledged, smiling at him. "But I... this may be... should he request that you share his bed, or anything similar that you are not entirely comfortable with, I strongly urge you to turn him down unless you are absolutely sure, however good your intentions may be." The lanista smiled sadly at John's utterly bewildered look. "You might hurt him."

It was a moment before he processed this piece of information. _Could_ the Emperor possibly... desire him sexually? He would do many things for the man he'd always admired, the man he had not expected to be so... _ordinary_ , and yet so _otherworldly_ at the same time that his very existence seemed paradoxical. But there was still a line, and he thought he may be discovering where that line was. "I will," he confirmed, watching Lestrade's face relax.

He _couldn't,_ anyway. It would feel too much like betraying Mary.


	4. Chapter 4

There was a honeybee in the room.

It made the silence rather louder than it already seemed. Sherlock lifted his eyes from the tablet he was attempting to peruse in order to follow the insect about the room; it landed briefly on the desk before a thin-fingered hand nudged it and it took off again. The Emperor pulled a face at his older brother. Mycroft's thin lips curled upwards. "Having any success?" he asked idly, gesturing towards the tablet. Sherlock frowned.

"Some. It would insist on being dreadfully boring."

The elder Holmes made a gesture of impatience. "As a consulate motion, I doubt it has any other option. Minerva forbid you be tasked with the actual _ruling_ of the Empire."

"I thought that was your job?" Sherlock quipped. Mycroft smiled. They both knew how this would go; within half an hour, Sherlock would have dropped the tablet on the desk and swanned out of the room to somewhere less boring.

"I take it you are satisfied with your new gladiator?" Mycroft ventured, a smirk toying with the edges of his cruel mouth.

Sherlock smiled benignly, trying not to betray the pesky swoop of his stomach at the mention of John Watson. "Very. He fights well. I would say his skills rival those of Lestrade."

The elder Holmes' right eyebrow twitched. Sherlock knew his brother had something of a soft spot for the lanista. He'd always been jealous through Sherlock's childhood when he'd happened upon the young gladiator kneeling behind his brother to correct his stance or his grip. Sherlock had always thought it was quite pathetic; back then he'd thought he would be Emperor. If he'd wanted the older man, he could have spoken a few words and had him. Now, though, he was starting to understand his hesitation.

Mycroft's lips curved cruelly, obviously sensing the direction his brother's thoughts were taking and the need to move them away. "Brains to go with the muscles, do you think?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He has an interest in the human anatomy. He sought the knowledge he has on his own terms, not through his profession. He saved lives at Ctesiphon."

"Oh, dear," the elder lilted, turning the tablet he was looking at over idly in his hands. "You really are besotted."

Secretly, of course, he had to agree. Watson's sudden grin in the pit after Sherlock had complimented him had completely and utterly disarmed him. It had taken him a moment to recover.

He _wanted_ him, more than he remembered ever wanting anyone else in the past. But there was something about Watson's open smile that had melted his insides, made him want to work to make the gladiator smile like that again. He was dangerous and skillful, and Sherlock was already aware that those were qualities he found immensely attractive. But he was kind and brave and admirable, and Sherlock was nonplussed by the effect that was having on his plans. He'd thought, after his reaction at the circus, that if he reacted viscerally to the dimachaerus this time around, he'd insist that they spend a night together to get it out of his system.

That wasn't going to work.

Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands into their sockets, trying to ignore Mycroft's smug smile eating at him from the corner, sensing the moment his brother lost interest in the conversation and turned back to his tablet. The problem afforded considerable thought. He wanted Watson as his, wanted him to smile because Sherlock had made it so, wanted him to _share_ in the pleasure rather than lie helpless as Sherlock took it for himself. He wanted a _lover,_ not a prostitute. That was much harder to pitch to an unsuspecting gladiator, especially one who was only in the profession because his wife had just been murdered.

_Oh._

He was the Emperor, and he was Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps the former wasn't enough to gain Watson's complete consent, but the latter... maybe he could make this work.

"I am going to take him as my lover," he announced to the room.

Mycroft looked up warily. "Who?" Evidently he was choosing to disregard the previous conversation.

He rolled his eyes impatiently. "John Watson."

The tablet the elder Holmes had been perusing clinked against the wood of his desk. Sherlock stuck his chin out obstinately. "That would be unwise."

"I do not care." Mycroft tried to look stern, but the tiny fond smile was obvious behind his eyes.

"Sherlock," his brother reprimanded. "This is not a political move. This is fear for your well-being. John Watson is a dangerous man. You cannot have him in this capacity without placing a certain element of trust in his hands, and a trained fighter with a deep resentment for the state is not a man you want to trust like that."

Sherlock refrained from sticking his tongue out at his older brother. "I can trust him."

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose in a gesture of extreme restraint. "You cannot know that, Sherlock."

"I can." He watched, smirking, as Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed, preparing himself for the customary _you-are-not-a-child_ speech, but Sherlock cut him off before he could start. "I can offer him something in return he cannot refuse. By the time I have delivered, either my... desire for him will have abated, or he will trust me enough to wish to continue the arrangement."

The elder Holmes frowned at him. "What is it you can offer him?"

Sherlock smirked, but did not reply. After a further moment of waiting, Mycroft gave up and picked up the tablet from the desk again. Sherlock's smirk grew; after a moment, he got up, tossed his own tablet onto the desk, and left the room for the gladiators' housing.

* * *

"Lestrade."

The lanista looked up from where he was seated on the bottom tier of the stands. The two gladiators lazily stepping around each other paused and nodded to Sherlock as he entered the arena to sit beside the older man. "Your Excellency," Lestrade replied, raising a hand in a lazy salute.

Sherlock huffed out a sigh as he sat down. "That has always sounded unnatural from your mouth."

The silver-haired fighter chuckled. "For me, as well. Are you here to watch?"

"I will watch," Sherlock answered, drawing his focus from the two gladiators back to the lanista. "But I am here to request that John Watson come to my chambers this evening. I wish to speak with him."

Lestrade's mouth twitched. "Is it for the reason that I think?" he asked. Sherlock could feel the man's warm eyes raking across his face and smiled absently.

"That depends on how ridiculously stupid you insist on being this afternoon," he retorted. The lanista laughed.

"I only insist on being stupid because it gets such a rise out of you," he chuckled fondly. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but a smile fought at the corners of his mouth. He knew the older man wasn't really stupid, of course. But the fact that he never scrambled out of the way when Sherlock told him that he was had always been too good not to take advantage of. If he told anyone else that they were stupid, they would flinch and apologise and look crushed. When he told Lestrade he was stupid, the lanista rolled his eyes and smiled, usually accompanying some kind of remark about Sherlock's own greater-than-normal intelligence. It was deliciously refreshing. "But you have not answered my question, my Lord."

Sherlock grinned. "No." He let his eyes drift back to the two gladiators, exchanging blows with startling precision, long limbs a skillful, sinuous dance. Knowing Lestrade was still watching him and waiting, he sighed. "Yes, it is for the reason that you think," he told him. "But you already know that I am not about to force him."

"Yes, I know." The lanista paused for a moment before chuckling. "But you will put it to him in a way he cannot refuse, I know you. And I am not sure he will have the strength to say no."

"I will not hurt him," Sherlock assured the older man.

Lestrade smiled sadly. "And he will not intend to hurt you. And yet, it happens. He is a gladiator. Even if everything goes the way you want it to, what will you do when he dies? You cannot protect him from his profession, and he would not wish you to."

Sherlock sighed. "I had not thought. I understand that there are risks, Lestrade. Simply his agreeing is less likely than I have allowed myself to think."

The lanista looked at him for a moment; Sherlock kept his eyes resolutely on the gladiators, trying to keep his expression neutral. Once again, though, the silver-haired man was not stupid.

"Oh, Bacchus," he cursed softly. Sherlock nodded ruefully. "Why?"

He shrugged. "I am still not sure. I had hoped that this might allow me to find out."

Lestrade watched him another moment, then sighed and slapped the Emperor lightly on the arm. "Well, the best of luck to you both," he said briskly. "Though I feel it only fair to warn you that I will be advising him to turn you down."

Sherlock chuckled. "I would advise the same thing," he agreed. "It seems the sensible course. Especially so soon after his wife's death."

"I would try not to mention that to him, my Lord," Lestrade advised. Sherlock gave him another half-smile. "Personally I do not think either of you stand a chance."

* * *

John Watson entered Sherlock's bedchamber hesitantly, looking around in what seemed to be wonder at the paintings on the walls and the awful bust of his father on a side-table by the door. Sherlock smirked as he saw John's gaze linger on the marble bust.

"Terrible, is it not?" he commented loudly.

Watson jumped a mile in the air and almost knocked it off its stand. Personally, Sherlock wouldn't have minded if it had shattered. "Y-your Excellency," the gladiator stuttered.

"You imagine trying to sleep with that thing staring at you," he continued idly, standing up from his desk and grinning at the shorter man. "Please, come in."

Sherlock watched as the arenarius slowly headed closer across the room, hands held firmly behind his back, face carefully arranged in an expression of polite deference. He smiled as the older man looked up at him, stopping a safe distance away from the desk. "How are you settling into the court?" he asked, tapping his stylus innocuously between finger and thumb.

Watson swallowed nervously. "Very well, my Lord. Lestrade is an exceptionally fair and good-natured man."

"Indeed." Sherlock held the silence for a moment, struggling for the protocol. "Very different from Dimmock, I have heard."

Watson chuckled. "Very much so, my Lord. A welcome change, meaning no disrespect."

It was Sherlock's turn to laugh. "Do not worry; the few times I met Dimmock he struck me as a boring and pompous simpleton. I hardly think 'respect' is the aim of his style of authority."

They stood looking at each other for a moment, Sherlock drinking in the sight of Watson's body unadorned with sweat, clean and at peace in a simple toga that failed to hide the impressive curve of his pectorals, Watson looking nervously around the room; Sherlock noticed that his eyes returned every few seconds to his Emperor's face as though he was finding it difficult to keep them away. He smiled. "I assume Lestrade granted you an extra week to acclimatise yourself before involving you properly in bouts?" he asked finally. Watson's eyebrows twitched into a tiny frown.

"He insisted that I take the week, my Lord. The expectations from your bouts are very different from those at the Circus and I believe he wished to avoid any confusion."

Sherlock nodded sharply. In the Circus Maximus the fights were not nearly as frequent as they were in his court, but the audiences were bigger and they expected blood, not skill. Sherlock tried to avoid death and serious injury in his court bouts. He understood Lestrade's hesitation to throw a man trained for the Circus into one of their more civilised fights, although he doubted that Watson would have trouble adjusting. "But you prefer this style, do you not? The chance to fight people who understand the mechanics of it as well as you do, rather than people who have been thrust into it like lambs for sacrifice?"

Watson smiled softly. "Yes, my Lord. It is a far more challenging and savoury environment."

He nodded again. The stylus that had been tapping between his fingers finally flew out of his hand and skittered along the floor; Sherlock sighed and clasped his fingers together. "I obviously did not call you here for idle discourse on my arena, pleasant as such discourse is," he said after a deep breath.

The dimachaerus nodded, his smile struggling not to break out into something that might be considered rude, although Sherlock wished he could see it. "Of course, my Lord."

Sherlock smiled at him; surprisingly, his eyes had dropped - almost as if he were reluctant to stop their conversation. He felt a thrill of anticipation.

"I wish to take you as a lover."

John Watson blinked in surprise, his eyes widening. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Does that surprise you? I would have thought Lestrade would have noticed."

"He... he did, my Lord," Watson ventured timidly. "I was aware that such a request was possible when I was summoned. I simply was not expecting you to put it so... bluntly. Most people would attempt to be delicate about such things."

Sherlock smirked. "I have never been most people," he commented. "It is what I want. Why should I bother skirting around it for useless hours?" Watson smiled slightly, but Sherlock could still tell he wasn't about to say yes. That was fine; he would have been disappointed if the man had given in so easily. "I would explain precisely what I require before you answer, Watson, and what I am willing to offer in return."

The dimachaerus gave a small smile. "As you wish, my Lord."

"I am not simply looking for a body to fill my bed. I would wish you to... participate. Were I seeking simple gratification, there are many people here who have made it their trade. I wish to feel as though my desire is returned." He was completely aware of how pathetic the words sounded, but he had to make it clear what he wanted to avoid disappointment later. "I ask for a lot more than a sexual partner."

Watson nodded slowly to show that he understood. Sherlock took in a few deep breaths; this was the important part, the make-it-or-break-it line. "As such, I believe I would owe you a generous favour in return," he said evenly. "I do not wish to degrade you by paying for your... time," he decided, trying to avoid the word 'services'.

"In return, then, I will do everything in my power to find and bring justice upon the men who killed your wife."

The gladiator turned pale, his shoulders slackening. Sherlock took a quick step forwards, suddenly worried he might collapse, but he held himself up, his hazel eyes wide. "I know how she died," he told him softly, "and it disgusts me that more was not done."

John Watson stared up at him for a moment, apparently lost for words. "You would do that, my Lord?"

Sherlock smiled at him. "Gladly. If you would be my lover."

"Yes."

He forced himself to slow down, to not accept the response straight off, tempting as it was to seal the arrangement without ensuring the other man was certain. "You must take some time to think about it, Watson. To be sure that you can give me all I ask for, because it is a great deal to ask. I would hate for you to be uncomfortable, but feel that after giving your word you could not back out."

Watson grinned at him, that startling, open grin again that made Sherlock's heart thump wildly in his chest. He made a show of looking at the ceiling of the bedchamber as though thinking about it. "Yes," he repeated firmly.

Sherlock smiled at him. He'd known that the offer of justice for Mary would tip the scales in his favour, but he hadn't thought it would be quite this certain. He had assumed that Watson would have more care for his dignity and the offer would be more of a battle between his conscience, his loyalty to his wife, and his pride. Apparently pride wasn't so much of an issue.

"I insist that you take the day to think about it," he said finally. "And be sure that you do think about it, Watson. I do not wish to make you uncomfortable." He watched for the expected flinch as the dimachaerus' mind turned to what he would have to do, but it never came; instead, the thin lips curved into a wider smile. Sherlock frowned. "If you are still certain that this serves you as well as it serves me, then return here tomorrow evening. If not, if you need more time to think, or have changed your mind, I will not think less of you."

John Watson smiled again. "I understand, my Lord." The arenarius held his gaze for a few moments longer. "I will see you tomorrow."


	5. Chapter 5

True to his word, John spent a considerable amount of time considering the Emperor's offer over the course of the day. It wasn't that there were _no_ counterarguments, after all. It was just that none of them held up to the fact that he had offered _justice for Mary_ in return.

There was, of course, the matter of the act Holmes had asked him to perform. Taking penetrative sex from another man would earn him more disrepute than joining the gladiators had. And yet, it was not as though the Emperor was about to scream it from the top tier of the Circus Maximus. And besides, he was already _infame_. His pride in the eyes of the city of Rome was already destroyed; the only thing he had left was his pride in his own eyes, and those of Lestrade, and the Emperor himself.

Lestrade already knew that Holmes wanted him to, and while he had _advised_ him not to accept, when he had come to inform John later that the Emperor wished his audience he had sounded resigned, as though it was a foregone conclusion that John would do so. Holmes himself would certainly not think any less of him if he accepted. And himself?

Would he be able to live with himself if he _did not_ take up the offer, _that_ was the question. If he were given the opportunity to have the Emperor's assistance in finding the people responsible for Mary's death, and he turned it down, even though the price was merely a slight to his pride and comfort.

And _that,_ he knew without really having to think, was barely a question at all.

Sherlock Holmes was sitting at his desk again when John knocked gently on the door; at the sight of him, the Emperor stood up hastily. "Watson," he said, his voice suddenly breathy. John smiled.

It was a strange thing, seeming to have so much power over this man. He was the _Emperor_ , and John was staring right at him, and the tall, dashing man was staring right back, his breath fast in his chest, eyes wide, so _vulnerable_. How simple it would be to reach for the dagger hidden in the folds of his loincloth and take his revenge for the State's inaction over Mary's murder.

And yet, there was something almost _enticing_ about the way the younger man was staring at him. In the face of it his earlier arguments seemed to lose their relevance. This man _wanted_ him, and in return he wanted to find justice for Mary. What he was about to do came as a miniscule price to pay for the reward.

Unsure how they were supposed to begin, John took a deep breath and stepped forwards. The Emperor seemed to snap out of some kind of trance, drawing in a deep breath and looking him up and down.

"Are you sure your clothing is sufficient for the weather, Watson?" he asked.

John looked down at himself in confusion. He had assumed that they would not be spending terribly long in clothing at all, and had worn only a simple chiton over his loincloth. "My Lord?" he questioned, frowning up at the taller man.

Sherlock Holmes smiled. "No matter. You will need a garment with a hood, in any case. Here," he said brightly, bending to muddle through a trunk of outer clothing at the foot of the enormous bed. Smiling as he straightened, Holmes held out a thick black outdoor cloak to him. "It may drag on the ground a little, but it will cover the thickness of your shoulders compared to mine."

"I am not that short, my Lord," John retaliated, barely thinking. The Emperor let out a delighted chuckle.

"Perhaps not. We shall see." He cast an identical cloak around his own shoulders, settling the hood across the back and clasping it shut over the pale dip in his collarbone. Completely lost, John did the same. "And will the dagger you carry be enough for you, should you need to defend yourself? I can offer you a sword if you need it." The curly-haired nobleman supplemented this point by affixing a longsword underneath the cloak and eyeing John's nether regions.

He looked down at himself; he had thought that the dagger was hidden from the outside eye. He had placed it carefully, in case Holmes became too rough or threatening. Knowing that the Emperor must have spotted it immediately, John felt his face flush with embarrassment. One thick eyebrow arched upwards, tugging the corner of Holmes' cupid's-bow with it. "Do not mistake me, Watson. I am pleased you still _wish_ to defend yourself should the need arise. But it is one thing being able to fend off a lust-driven would-be lover, and another entirely an attacker on the streets. Are you armed sufficiently?"

John frowned, thoroughly lost. He had the feeling that he had missed some vital piece of information that would allow him to follow the conversation. "It is enough to defend _my_ person, my Lord, but should I be required to protect yours also –"

"Your own is the only person you should worry about. I can defend myself."

He tried not to doubt it, tried to keep his face neutral and his mouth shut, but confusion won out quickly. "Where are we going, my Lord, that I may need more than a dagger to protect myself?"

Sherlock Holmes looked at him as though he was being supremely idiotic. "Night has fallen, Watson. Two men in the alleyways at night, obviously trying to avoid detection with our faces covered - for to have either of us discovered in that particular space would not bode well – we are bound to arouse suspicion. No doubt some manner of thug will attempt to hold us up and we must be ready to make a swift exit." With one last look around the bedchamber, the Emperor nodded sharply and started towards the door. "Are you ready?"

"Ready for _what_ , my Lord?" John asked again.

Holmes smiled broadly. "To find out what happened to Mary, of course."

The bottom fell out of John's stomach. "What?" He took a moment to process the previous conversation. "You mean that you actually intend to go to the place where she was found and investigate her death yourself, my Lord? Tonight?"

The Emperor frowned at him. "Yes, of course. What did you think I meant when I promised I would help you to find her killer?"

John's eyes hit the floor sheepishly. "I… had assumed you simply meant to re-open the investigation amongst the townspeople. Perhaps announce to the city that you had taken an interest in the matter to encourage anyone who may have information to come forwards. I did not think…"

"And you still accepted my offer so readily? By Jupiter, Watson, you are easily bought." John thought that the taller man was scolding him until he noticed that his grey – or were they green? – eyes were soft. "You must have loved her very much."

He nodded, still averting his eyes as a lump grew in his throat. "More than my own life."

Holmes smiled slowly. "Evidently." He took a tentative step forwards. "If you wish to postpone… if you are not ready to revisit the place where she was found…"

"No," John deflected, much calmer than he felt, plastering a smile on his face and looking up at the Emperor. "I am ready, my Lord. Thank you."

As they left together, he watched the swish of the black cloak over the taller man's shoulders and thought that he must owe Holmes the best shag of his life to repay this.

Sherlock Holmes paused outside the walls and looked up at the tall stone building behind them. John found himself watching the pale curve of the man's neck as he bared it for a moment, before following his gaze to try and see what the Emperor was looking at.

It was a clear night, and the moon and stars cast pallid shadows over the walls. It took John a moment or so before he realised that Holmes's eyes were cast towards the sky and not the building at all. "Beautiful, is it not?" he said finally.

John smiled. It _was_ , but he wasn't sure he had expected the Emperor to say so. He had thought that intimate knowledge of something detracted from its beauty somewhat. It was almost touching to know that he still appreciated it. "Yes, it is," he said. "I expect you know more about it than I do, though."

Holmes looked at him blankly. "More about what?"

"The stars," John replied, wondering if perhaps that _hadn't_ been what he was looking at. "The constellations, and divination, and where they come from."

The Emperor blinked. "Do people know where they come from?" he asked, sounding genuinely surprised. "I just think they are beautiful. I know nothing about them."

"You cannot know _nothing_ about the stars," John retaliated automatically. "You must know some things. The constellations, for example. You must know that that cluster is the spirits of – but then, the Christians refute that, I've heard. I suppose nothing is certain now."

When he looked up, he saw that Sherlock Holmes was staring at him in amazement. "The spirits of what?" he asked breathlessly.

John frowned. "You must know. I was taught the map of the stars when I was just a child. Surely as _Emperor_ you would have been taught similarly, my Lord?"

The younger man smiled. "Apparently not," he replied easily. "Or, if I ever was, I erased it. It is not exactly relevant."

"Erased it?" John repeated incredulously.

Holmes drew another deep breath and tore his eyes away from the sky. "Yes. I believe one should hold in their mind only relevant information. That leaves less room for error and more to accommodate new things. Most likely when I was a child I deemed the stars beautiful but irrelevant and erased the information."

"Can you do that?" John asked. "I always find my mind filled with things that are not important and yet that I am unable to recall the important things."

The Emperor shrugged. "Exactly. Come along, Watson, or we shall leave the night behind us entirely and have got nowhere."

And he strode away, leaving John to trot after him, shaking his head in amazement. There was evidently more to Sherlock Holmes than met the eye, and the eye did not want for much. John wondered if he should be alarmed at the sudden desire to find out what else the Emperor did not know, and what he knew more about than John could ever hope to remember.

Holmes led him with unerring certainty through the back-alleys right back to three streets away from the home he had left. John's heart started to pound uncomfortably; around this next corner was where he had found his wife's mangled body. Was he ready to see it again?

The Emperor paused at the corner, looking back at John with a concerned look gracing his face. "Are you sure you wish to look at this?" he asked softly. John took a deep breath and nodded. Holmes smiled at him. "If you wish to leave, please say so," he said gently. "I do not want to cause you pain."

And then they were there, standing perfectly openly in the street where Mary died, where he'd found her bloody and broken, where his life as he had known it had ended. Holmes was crouching over the smear of blood across the packed dirt of the alley that was all that remained, his hand poised above it, the hood of the cloak draped over his curls and pooling on his shoulders like obsidian. It was such juxtaposition that John felt dizzy.

After a moment the Emperor lowered the hand to trace the middle of the stain with his fingertips. "This is where it happened?" he asked.

John tried to confirm it, but all that came out was a strangled squeak. _Yes. That's where Mary died._

At the sound, Holmes' head snapped around, the hood slipping further back and allowing a few curls to protrude over the lip. "Are you all right? If you need to leave, just say."

He shook his head slightly, his lips pressed so tightly together that it hurt. "No, my Lord, I can manage," he said, after clearing his throat. "Yes, that is where…"

Holmes offered him a brief sympathetic smile before turning back to the stain. "And they did not clean anything away? No attempt was made to remove this stain?"

"No, my Lord," he replied. "The ground was brushed, I believe, once they…" his throat closed up suddenly and he had to clear it again before he could continue. "Once they removed her. But that was all. I believe originally it was an attempt to preserve it, in case any clue as to her killer could be gleaned from it."

The younger man nodded perfunctorily. "And it was you who found her first?" he asked.

John nodded. "Her brother and I. We came looking for her – we were on our way to the square."

Holmes stood up at this, crossing slowly to stand in front of him, his eyes wide. "Watson… _John_ ," he said gravely. John's heart made a strange thumping motion – of dread or elation, he could not tell – at the sound of his first name in that voice. "This next question will be difficult, but if you can… I need you to describe her injuries."

It felt as though the world was falling away from him; he didn't think anything could be more difficult. Holmes' eyes anchored him, just the glint of them in his face visible in the dark, serious and sympathetic. There was a large hand on his arm, gripping below the shoulder-blade, and John lifted his own hand to hold it in place, because without it he felt sure he would fall.

_Mary._

They had smelled it before they saw it. The acrid, coppery smell of blood that crept under your nostrils and skin and into your lungs; they had followed it, John's heart raising a storm in his throat. And then they had seen it.

There had been a puddle of blood spreading slowly from her head, sticking in her auburn hair. John had got his knees filthy with it, mixed into the dirt, as he had bent to cradle her head. The blood had come from a relatively small wound in her neck – the jugular, he had realised later when he had recovered enough thought to consider it. He had closed his eyes and kissed her forehead, blood smearing across his lips.

Her stomach… she had been clothed in a simple brown dress, torn apart at the breast but still covering her modesty, ripped asunder only to show the wound where once she had had a belly. When they had examined it later, once sanity had been recovered, it had been started by a stab wound to the side, which had somehow been inflamed until someone had managed to tear out her stomach completely, leaving a mess of blood and flesh and nothing that John had tried his hardest to tear his eyes away from.

And then he had cradled her, and kissed her, and wept and screamed until someone who cared less had separated them.

"I am sorry," Holmes was saying, his other hand mirroring the first in clutching at John's arm. Were those tears glistening in his pale eyes, or were they simply swimming in the distortion from his own? John shook his head. "I am so sorry, John."

They stood like this for long minutes, before John could recover himself enough to nod. "Thank you, my Lord," he said briskly. Reluctantly, Sherlock Holmes let go of him and turned back to the only physical evidence that John's wife had existed.

Holmes looked at it for a moment, his eyes narrowed critically. "I can tell you she did not die here," he said slowly.

John blinked. "Are you sure?"

"Of course," Holmes replied easily. "Those wounds you described, they would have bled a lot more than this stain. And had her stomach been ruined here, the mess would be evident." He made a vague gesture from his own stomach meant to indicate expulsion; John felt ill. "There are many footsteps in the dirt here. The time that has passed since it happened does not help, but if you look here," he indicated a space on the road that had been torn up by many feet, "you can still see heavier footprints than the others. From the way that they are positioned – I cannot be sure, it could simply be overlaying over time – I would say there were two people carrying something heavy between them, one walking forwards and one backwards. Perhaps there is still…"

Seemingly absorbed in his own mind, Holmes crouched again, his eyes straining. "I can barely see. If only we could come back in the daylight, only we cannot be seen – we shall have to come back with a torch." Nonplussed, John stood back and watched the Emperor almost crawling along the alleyway, his nose so close to the ground it was a wonder he did not pitch forwards. "Ah!" he exclaimed finally. "I think I have it! This way, Watson!"

John followed him as he moved – still crouched, moving along the ground like some kind of dog – towards the end of the alley. Unsure what he was looking for, John glanced around the alley.

When they reached the end, the labyrinth of Roman streets curved in both directions and Holmes let out a snort of frustration and stood up. "Watson, you take that direction – you should not need to look more than five paces into the street before you find one."

"I apologise, my Lord," John said awkwardly as Holmes bent again and turned away from him. "But – one what? What are you looking for?"

The Emperor looked up at him. "Small splashes of blood," he explained as though it were obvious. "If she was not killed there, then it follows that they must have killed her elsewhere and then carried her to where she was found. That stomach wound must still have been bleeding, therefore when they carried her blood must have dripped. It should be a trail back to the original scene, which with any luck will be far more telling."

John became aware that his mouth was open and closed it hurriedly. Then opened it again. "Brilliant," he said softly. "That… I could not have come up with that logic on my own."

Sherlock Holmes smiled. "That is because you do not _think_ ," he said sternly. The smile was meant to convey pity and superiority, but in the moonlight John knew he could see a flash of flattered pride as well. "Go on, have a look," he prompted finally, turning back to the dirt road.

John crouched and turned his eyes to the ground. The light at this level was terrible and he could almost feel his eyesight deteriorating as he scanned the dust, but he saw nothing. "I am afraid I cannot see anything, my Lord," he called back.

Holmes made a noise of irritation. "Keep looking, Watson – ah! No, I have found it. This direction."

They followed the road, John looking over Holmes' shoulder to see every time the Emperor stopped to point out another sestertius-sized splash of something dark. This time when it turned, however, there was a shout from around the corner.

"Oi!" A deep, rough voice boomed. "What're you two doing? Thieving scum!"

Panic and adrenaline flowed through John and his hand was inside the cloak reaching for his dagger before he knew quite what he was doing; a warm hand on his arm brought him back to reality.

"No," Holmes said softly, straightening and adjusting the hood over his head. "It would be better to avoid confrontation. Take my hand." He held it out palm-up, warm and large and masculine. John took it, feeling the dry slide of their palms together.

And they ran; John's blood pounded in his veins, the adrenaline spurring him to keep up with the Emperor as he sped around corners and down alleys, not seeming to look where he was going and yet somehow appearing to know exactly where they were. When the sounds of pursuit faded, John began to laugh, the excitement bubbling out of his chest. Once, Sherlock Holmes looked back at him, his own face alight with the thrill of the run and beaming.

It was not until they stopped that John realised it was the first time he had laughed since Mary died; not until the Emperor stopped suddenly and John ran into his side with a soft _flump_ that he realised he was no longer simply holding the other man's hand to ensure they were not separated.

Holmes looked at him, making no move to drop his hand, and began to chuckle, his high cheekbones pink from exertion, and John chuckled too, until they were both helpless against it, leaning against the wall of the building behind them. "A torch next time," the Emperor panted between chuckles. "Then we will not be caught crawling like dogs, squinting at the road." He straightened, the laughter fading, and rapped John sharply on the arm. "You had better get back," he said. "Or Lestrade will have my head."

Looking around, John realised that Holmes in his running had led them right back to the court. Distantly, he felt his heart sinking; he was not ready for the night to be over. "When… when may I begin fulfilling my end of our agreement, my Lord?" he asked tentatively.

The younger man looked at him in surprise. "I…" His pale eyes gazed at John almost suspiciously, as though trying to find a gap in his eager mask. John grinned. "Would it be too much tomorrow? No doubt Lestrade will make you work hard in the morning."

John shook his head, still grinning. "Tomorrow will be perfect."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: smut.

Sherlock didn't get anything done all day.

After he and John Watson got back the night before he hadn't even tried to sleep; pacing fitfully around his bedchamber seemed far more productive. How could he be expected to lie still and think calm thoughts when _John Watson_ had actually _asked_ when they would sleep together? Had actually sounded _eager_ about the prospect?

When the morning came he tried to watch the gladiators train, but found this, too, to be a mistake. John had stepped out into the arena, chest bare and glistening with oil, and he had had to leave before he embarrassed himself.

He wasn't sure when Watson had become 'John' in his mind, either. Mycroft would say that it wasn't healthy – he _knew_ it wasn't healthy. He was besotted. Everything the gladiator did made Sherlock admire him even more: the previous night, when he had expected that Sherlock simply intended to put the city lawkeepers back to finding Mary's killers and barely lift a finger himself – and he had still agreed! The loyalty that he showed to his late wife made Sherlock in awe of John, jealous of Mary and guilty for trying to take her place all at once.

And last night – last night!

Sherlock had never felt anything like it. He'd snuck out of court after dark before to view places where people had been killed or hurt and tell the lawkeepers what he thought, and he'd enjoyed it – the puzzle making his mind whirr and sing and his blood spin through his veins. This wasn't like that.

He'd never had anyone watch him dissect a crime scene like that before, with genuine _interest_. No-one had ever waited for the explanation of _how_ he knew things instead of muttering a demure "yes, my Lord" and going in the direction he had waved his hand. Never had anyone stared at him and said "brilliant!" quite the way John had done.

And then after, when they had run, John's hand clutched tight and sweaty in his own, the sound of his laugh echoing behind him, Sherlock's whole body had imploded with adrenaline.

He'd used the time they spent slumped against the wall to examine what John was feeling, and he knew a similar reaction had happened in the gladiator's body, that the smile on his face was genuinely gleeful.

Perhaps he'd imagined it. But he could have sworn they'd just… clicked.

And then, after all, John had _asked_ when they might start on the other side of the agreement as though he was looking forward to it.

He tried to go about things in much the way he normally did, but Mycroft glared at him enough that he took his jitters back to his chambers. That was where he was found after sundown, gazing out of the window down across the city, watching people light fires in their houses and draw water from the squares before settling down for the night. Someone had been through the room and lit a fire there as well, along with enough candles to ensure the room was well-lit. When the cursory knock on the door came, he grunted a reply without looking up.

"Er… my Lord…"

Sherlock jumped at the sound of John's voice, slipping his legs off the windowsill and arranging his toga more presentably over his legs. "Watson," he greeted, noticing a small smile as it came across the dimachaerus and realising he'd said much the same thing the night before. "Forgive me, I… my mind was elsewhere."

John smiled with a deferent bow of the head. "I would imagine a mind such as yours would reach rather fantastic places," he commented.

Warmth flooded Sherlock's face at the compliment. "Fantastic places indeed," he said, flushing harder as he remembered exactly _where_ his mind had been. "I trust you were not too fatigued after last night?" he diverted hastily.

John smiled. "A little, my Lord, but I am certain it did not affect today's exercises."

"Very good," Sherlock nodded sharply. "Did you manage to get much sleep after we returned?"

At this, the smile quickly turned guilty. "I am afraid not, my Lord. I was in no hurry for the adrenaline to die away." Sherlock couldn't help but smile back; he had been in a similar situation. After leaving John, his whole body tingled and his heart raced and he hadn't wanted the feeling to fade. "I… I enjoyed last night, my Lord," John volunteered after a pause. "I mean – not visiting where Mary was killed. But being with you, talking to you. Running with you. I enjoyed it."

Sherlock grinned. He'd known that he would – if John joined the gladiators to escape Mary's death then he needed the adrenaline of the fight. "As did I," he said, smiling brightly. "Very much."

His heart fluttered and leapt as the stocky arenarii grinned at him. Then John fell to twisting his fingers nervously. "I am afraid I… I am unsure how to proceed, my Lord. I assume you still wish to…"

John trailed off, waiting for Sherlock to finish the sentence. He smiled eagerly. "Yes." He shifted hesitantly, unable to stop his eyes from flickering to the bed.

So John Watson crossed the room to sit on the bed, hands reaching for the ties on his toga. Sherlock felt his heart sink. He'd tried his utmost to ensure that the gladiator understood what he wanted, that he wasn't just looking for someone to relieve his every sexual impulse. "Oh," he said softly. "I apologise – perhaps I failed to make it clear what I want. I would like something more intimate than the simple act of taking you. I had hoped you might… concede to… be _lovers_ , as opposed to "keeping" you as a concubine. I… I understand if the notion makes you uncomfortable."

He _had_ thought he'd made it clear already. And yet John was acting as though he expected to simply strip and lie back. Sherlock bit his lip as the arenarius stood up again, frowning at him with something approaching sympathy, if not outright pity. "I am willing to relinquish that part of our agreement, if you would prefer," he offered, wondering if it wouldn't be better to just take whatever John could give him rather than settling for nothing less than _everything_ in a way it was highly possible he'd never get. "I will continue to investigate Mary's death until we discover who it was that killed her, but I will not ask you to give me everything you gave to her in return."

The gladiator stood a reasonable distance away from him, frowning heavily. "No," he said finally.

Sherlock blinked. "I am sorry? I just offered you a chance to completely escape, to gain everything you want from me and give nothing in return, and you are saying _no_?"

"Yes, my Lord," John said firmly. "I hold myself a fairly decent judge of character, and you… I am comfortable being intimate with you. But I am not comfortable with you giving me something I want so badly without taking anything in return."

The arenarius stood solidly, his hands held calmly by his sides. Sherlock swallowed, taken aback. "I very much enjoyed conducting our investigation last night. The puzzle, the thrill of the chase – I do get my own satisfaction out of this. Do not think that I am taking nothing."

John Watson actually smiled. "Even so, my Lord. I am not backing out of our agreement." When Sherlock, still slightly shocked by the fighter's willingness, did not respond, he frowned, his face contorting with worry. "Oh, unless… my Lord… if you no longer desire…"

"No!" Sherlock interjected quickly, his heart thumping encouragement in his chest. "Of course I still want you. I… thank you."

Again, the gladiator's lips curled up into a genuine smile. "Very good, my Lord."

Sherlock smiled back. "If we are to become intimate, I request that you call me 'Sherlock'," he said softly. The other man's eyes widened hesitantly. "And if you are comfortable, I would call you 'John'."

All the hesitation, regret, hope and trepidation leaked out of Sherlock as John relaxed his posture and gave him the same friendly, mischievous grin he'd displayed the previous night. "Of course. Sherlock."

Hearing his name in that rough voice spirited a grin onto Sherlock's own face; he wanted, more than anything, to hear it gasped or cried between sheets in a moment of passion. But he couldn't allow himself to think that would happen. John agreeing to this higher level of intimacy did not equate to John desiring him sexually. "Come here," he requested anyway, turning in the window-seat to properly face the gladiator as he approached until he was looking up as John stood before him.

"You really are a very handsome man, John," he said conversationally.

John grinned down at him. "Perhaps, my Lord – Sherlock," he corrected himself. Sherlock placed his hands on the older man's hips; as if this were a prompt, John reached up to place the gentlest of touches on Sherlock's dark curls. "But _you_ are beautiful."

Sherlock chuckled slightly derisively as he stood up. _Beautiful_ was not a word he'd heard describing him before; striking, perhaps, but it wasn't the same thing. He reached up a hand to cup John's jaw, the skin smooth: he'd shaved before coming, then. "May I kiss you?" he asked softly.

John nodded. "Yes."

The man's lips were soft and pliant; they bent and curved under the gentle touch of Sherlock's own as he carefully opened and closed his mouth, one hand holding his jaw steady while the other remained gently on his hip, urging their lower halves close. He could feel his heartbeat running away with him, feel the animal impulse to push harder all at once, but he ignored the itch. Had he wanted a rough, animalistic rut, he would have requested a prostitute. He wanted to take _care_ of John, and to have John take care of him. All the same, it was difficult to ignore the rush of blood to his extremities.

He'd been expecting John, so he had abandoned the fancy livery and purple that he had worn for the court earlier; both of them were clad only in loose togas and loincloths. Sherlock reached his hand up to the pin at John's shoulder as he softly parted his lips and prodded at John's mouth with his tongue.

The arenarius gave a soft sigh as he allowed Sherlock's tongue between his lips, relaxing against his Emperor and letting a huff of breath out of his nose. Sherlock tightened his arms around John's waist as his toga slid down his torso and onto the floor. John's tongue fluttered against his, not resisting the kiss, but not really participating.

Sherlock pulled back so that their lips barely touched, John's breath ghosting over his bottom lip and spilling into his mouth. He thought he might be shaking. Gently, he shifted his chin forwards so that his lips moved against the other man's, just the barest suggestion of contact between them. Then he pulled away.

John opened his eyes slower than Sherlock, so he was treated to the sight of him swaying slightly on the spot, eyes closed, face calm. Sherlock slid his hand into John's hair, cradling the back of his head, as the gladiator's stormy eyes slid slowly open. He smiled, and John Watson smiled back.

Then John leaned forwards and took Sherlock's mouth.

There was no other term for it: the arenarius _claimed_ the orifice, pressing lips firmly to lips and inserting his tongue firmly between teeth, his arms holding Sherlock in place while he plundered and explored.

Sherlock melted. He was barely aware of his knees buckling until the hand at his waist tightened and John quickly changed his stance to support both their weights; as the other man's mouth started to leave his he tried to chase it back before he quite registered the position he was in. John calmly propped him back on his feet. "Are you all right, my - Sherlock?"

_My Sherlock_. It was not intentional, but he smiled nonetheless. "Quite. I apologise. You are quite disarming, John."

The older man chuckled. "Mary used to say that. I never quite believed her."

"She certainly had impeccable taste," Sherlock remarked, wondering if talking about Mary was really a good idea and how he might draw the conversation elsewhere. Or stop it completely in favour of more non-verbal pursuits. "Take it from me."

John smiled. "Thank you." He leaned back in and pressed their lips together again, teeth working gently at Sherlock's bottom lip. He pulled away as Sherlock realised his hand was travelling up to the pin on his toga. "May I?" he asked.

Sherlock made an inviting gesture. "Please." John flashed him the grin that always made his stomach wobble and let the fabric fall to his feet, exposing Sherlock's torso and legs.

He tried to leave his arms at his sides. It wasn't that he was self-conscious exactly - well, only a little. John was so perfectly built and he had always been slightly too thin and too pale, and he so desperately wanted John to like him physically. To his dismay, John frowned.

"Why are there no marbles of you around the court?" the gladiator asked curiously. "I have always wondered. Each new Emperor has had one sculpted as soon as they are given rule, and yet you never have."

Sherlock frowned: that was most certainly not the question he had been expecting. "I would not stand still long enough for anyone to sculpt me," he answered honestly. "I find the practice tedious and unnecessary. Perhaps later in life, when people will _need_ the marble to remember what I look like."

John's frown turned into a curious half-smile. "Indeed - I cannot imagine you standing still for a sculptor, actually. You are too full of energy and vitality." His hand reached up to trail fingers down Sherlock's chest, between the gentle swells of his pectorals. "You would make a stunning marble, though."

He grinned, slightly stunned. "Thank you." His own hand covered John's, feeling the callouses worn by the twin swords, rough against the smooth skin of his chest. He pulled them closer together and kissed him again. John tasted of seeds and oil and the warmth of a fire in a grate, and Sherlock delved deeper, immersing himself in it.

When next they broke apart, Sherlock was mildly surprised to notice that he wasn't the only one panting. The kiss had been blinding and alluring, drawing him in until he could no longer think about whether John was really enjoying it. He was still smiling, his chest rubbing against Sherlock's with every shallow inhale. Sherlock's hands slid up and down the smooth skin of John's back, littered with the tiny bumps and dips of old scars; he was possessed with a sudden urge to call the arenarius' attention to each one and find out where it was from, how he had won it. To map them as things that he _knew_ about John.

To take his mind of the irrationally possessive thought, he pulled his lips away from John's and whispered against them, "Come to bed with me."

John smiled, so softly Sherlock could actually see it trembling a little in its earnest. "With pleasure, Sherlock."

He grinned. "You see, my name is not so difficult," he remarked. John chuckled lowly and gently untangled his fingers from Sherlock's hair, stepping away to sit on the bed, his fingers hooked into his own loincloth.

Sherlock stepped until he was standing between the gladiator's spread legs, his breath coming faster as John's knees shifted to entrap him. He lifted his hands to unhook John's from his loincloth. "Let me," he breathed, leaning down to kiss him, to shift his weight until the two of them were horizontal and he was on his knees and elbows over the smaller man with the heat from his body warming his belly.

Moving _so_ carefully, as though any movement too rough would damage John, he let his lips trail gentle kisses down the dimachaerus' neck and chest, licking the faint salty tang of sweat from his torso and flicking his tongue gently over John's brown nipples. The gladiator gasped at this, his stomach heaving to bump Sherlock's chin. He tried to smirk up at him, but it came out as something more like a genuinely pleased expression. He was _giving John pleasure._

Sherlock sat back on his heels and reached for the tie on John's loincloth. He had thought in the past that thinner undergarments should be a serious point of investigation with the court seamstresses, especially in regard to ease of removal. And yet right now lifting John's hips and unwrapping the fabric of his loincloth slowly, like unwrapping a gift or a sword, seemed the most delightful thing in the world and made him shudder with anticipation. "Lift," he whispered against John's belly – firm when he kissed it and the older man chuckled, soft when he nosed against it and the muscles relaxed – and John did, arching his back until his hips were off the bed and Sherlock could reach under, untie his loincloth and unwind the layers of fabric from under him, exposing him bit by bit.

John was half-hard, and that in itself made Sherlock thrill with joy: _he_ did that. He looked up at the arenarius, his hand flicking the loincloth off the bed and coming back to stroke up John's inner thigh. "Beautiful," he whispered, placing a gentle kiss on the tip.

The gladiator's breath stuttered. "Liar," he replied, his voice slightly shaky. "It is the neglected genitalia of an old fighter."

Sherlock bent his head and nuzzled at it, feeling it swell slightly against the cool of his cheek. "It is _your_ genitalia," he replied, darting his tongue out briefly like a snake tasting the air – and the taste was everything he'd imagined. "Therefore it is beautiful."

John chuckled again, his fingers fiddling with a loose curl adventuring across Sherlock's forehead. "You _are_ magnanimous," he complimented dryly. "It is no wonder you are Emperor. I cannot imagine your brother being so gracious in bed."

Sherlock grimaced. "Please refrain from mentioning Mycroft in this situation," he insisted, licking tentatively at John's hardness again. The gladiator grunted softly. "John, have you… I understand that occasionally it is not unusual for a woman to… penetrate her partner in some way…"

"No," John huffed quickly, the hand that was not half-heartedly attempting to stroke parts of Sherlock's face flying up and landing shyly across his face. "I thought about it. Mary never… we thought…"

Sherlock kissed his inner thigh. "So I will be the first to touch you in this way?" he asked, feeling his own arousal twitch at the thought. John made a noise of assent. Sherlock had to close his eyes for a moment to avoid losing control completely. He wanted to be _gentle_ , to take _care_ of John. "Thank you," he whispered. John chuckled. "I promise to be gentle. Would you…" he closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. "Would you rather I did not attempt to give you pleasure? I understand it may compromise you, morally."

Again, John chuckled. "I hardly think Mary would complain, Sherlock. If you wish to please me, I am in no position to argue."

And that, _that_ , was almost as good as an _I want you_. Sherlock scrambled back up John's body to press their lips together feverishly, lowering his hips until their erections bumped together and Sherlock's whole body burned. He whimpered into John's mouth and thrust his hips helplessly a few times, feeling the gladiator's chest heave and his breath puff past his cheek. "John," he gasped out. "May I…"

"I… yes – I want…" John stuttered in reply. Grinning like a fool, Sherlock reached up to the small jar of oil on the table by the bed and nuzzled his face into John's neck.

"Sssh," he comforted. "I will be gentle, I promise, but it may still hurt you a little. If you are uncomfortable, we can do this another night. There are other ways of finding pleasure."

John grabbed his hair and pulled it until Sherlock, panting, surprised at the reaction in his loincloth to the gladiator forcing him, was face to face with his auctoratus in order to press their lips together again. "Please, Sherlock," he whispered against his lips. "Just do it. I will survive."

Sherlock sat back on his heels after one last brush of his lips against the soft pressure of John's and pulled the stop out of the tiny bottle. "Thank you," he repeated. He drizzled the oil over his fingers, the excess sliding through them and dripping onto John's bare stomach. As he rubbed it over his fingers he bent down and rubbed his nose through the puddle slipping down the tiers of the gladiator's abdominals and into his belly button, spreading the fluid down to the seam between thigh and groin.

To distract the man as he gently slid his finger through the tight ring of slick muscle, he adjusted his face against John's belly and scraped his teeth against it. John shuddered and lifted his hand back to nest in Sherlock's hair as he kissed and bit and licked his way across the arenarius' stomach, his finger twisting and sliding between John's legs.

It felt like preparing him took forever, Sherlock's whole body thrumming with impatience, but he kept the agonizingly slow pace because John's own fingers were clutching at his arm with the same rhythm and his eyelids were fluttering and he looked so _beautiful_ that Sherlock's heart kept forgetting when to beat. When finally he could handle the sight no longer, he carefully slid his fingers out and feverishly removed his own loincloth, running his hands down and up John's thigh, grazing against his groin before winding up to his face, careful not to touch John's face with the hand he had just removed from the gladiator's arse.

Gently, he shifted again to lie over John's body, covering it with his own, nestled sweetly between his legs. The older man sighed, his arms rising to stroke at Sherlock's back. Sherlock bent his head and breathed in the scent at the base of his neck, warm and masculine. "Are you ready?" he asked quietly.

"I think so," John replied, but there was hesitation in his voice; Sherlock bent to kiss him softly.

"If I am hurting you, if you wish me to stop, you have only to say," he reassured him. John's hands clutched at his back as the gladiator kissed him in return, languid and peaceful. So Sherlock gripped his own arousal and gently guided the head into John's body.

The arenarius grimaced for a moment, biting his bottom lip, and Sherlock almost ended it there. But then he released the breath he had been holding, his hazel eyes sliding shut, and Sherlock yelped in surprise as the body underneath him relaxed and he slid inside.

It was... the most extraordinary sensation Sherlock had ever felt. He raised himself up to look at John's face, breathing heavily as he absorbed the feeling - he was _inside_ the gladiator. John's eyes were closed, but he did not look to be in pain; he, too, was panting and clutching at Sherlock's back. Then he opened his eyes. Sherlock smiled. "Are you all right?" he asked in a whisper.

John grinned back. "I am fine. It... is not what I was expecting, but it is not painful."

"Tell me how it feels," Sherlock breathed against John's cheek, his arms shaking with the effort of holding himself up and still.

The older man chuckled. "Ever curious," he commented idly, flicking his tongue out to lick quickly at Sherlock's cheek. "It is as if... almost like I have to use a chamber-pot," he commented. "Only without the urgency. It feels... nice."

Sherlock felt himself smiling in delight. "And if I..." he rocked forwards gently, driving himself deeper into the auctoratus. John gasped. Sherlock buried his face in the stocky gladiator's neck, forcing himself to still; the movement had felt like fire. He could only imagine what a firmer motion would do. "You know, the Greeks believe such a bond between men is sacred," he remarked. "It seems they had the right idea about something."

John chuckled. "If only one thing." He breathed a few more times, his hands wrapping around Sherlock's back, holding him close. "Would you... make that movement again?"

"Oh, yes." Sherlock rocked again, lifting himself up until his hands were planted on either side of John's head to make the movement easier. The gladiator's firm, calloused hands gripped his shoulder-blades as he shifted back and forwards in a gentle motion. John carefully drew his knees up until his feet could rest flat on the bed; this must have changed things somehow because when Sherlock rocked forwards next, the arenarius let out the softest of moans.

And then Sherlock was gone. His hips thrust forward sharply, completely beyond his control, and even his toes tingled with sensation. He'd been inside people before - women mostly, but there had been the occasional young man and nothing had _ever_ felt like this. Never had he felt as though his entire body would explode with pleasure, as though being inside John somehow caused every nerve in his body to burn and _feel._ He thrust harder and groaned as the resulting wave of sensation hit him, his fingers clawing frantically at the sheets. John was gasping and gently rocking his own hips up to meet the increasingly desperate thrusts of Sherlock's.

He had meant for this to last, but somehow he had known it wouldn't. Not after he'd been wound tighter than a ballista with anticipation since the previous night. Carefully, not bearing to cease the snapping of his hips, he slid down until his chest touched John's, until their entire bodies joined and rubbed against each other with each thrust, increasing the sensations tenfold. Somewhat desperately, he bent his head and kissed John, his tongue mimicking the motions of his hips, and John responded eagerly, his hands still hot and firm on Sherlock's shoulders, pulling him closer, harder. Their bodies moved together in frantic synchronisation, in and out like their breaths as they had run last night.

Eventually Sherlock pulled away from the soft noises and warmth of the kiss. "Would you - do you - may I touch you? I will not last much longer, and if you are not uncomfortable I would like to see you finish. Unless you do not - mmph!"

John had lifted his head and claimed his mouth again, cutting off his sentence. The kiss was hard, John's hand weaving into his hair and pulling it, and for a moment Sherlock thought he'd said something wrong. When John let him go, however, his head falling back onto the bed with a _flump_ of sheets, he was smiling. "Stop worrying. You are extraordinary, Sherlock - I would never have anticipated what you have done tonight, that you would take so much time to give _me_ pleasure. If you wish to touch me, to bring me to completion, I should be thanking _you_. After everything you have already done, I hardly think it will take long."

Sherlock kissed him again. "I wish for you to want to stay as long as possible," he explained, stroking a finger across the gladiator's cheekbone, down his chin, through the dip of his collarbone. "I am afraid that if I do something to make you uncomfortable you will leave."

"You are doing fine," John said, grinning and pulling their mouths together again. Sherlock grinned back, his wandering finger finding its destination as he struggled to hold everything together and not fly apart into a million sparkling pieces more brilliant than the stars. "In fact, you are - _oh!_ Sherlock - that - oh, _yes!"_

Sherlock moaned as the arenarius writhed in pleasure beneath him, his own thin fingers dancing teasingly up his penis, flicking over the head just enough to catch the pre-come and spread it around, his fingers still slick with the oil he had used to prepare John. The sight of it, of his own pale fingers over the other man's thick and throbbing arousal, of John with his head thrown back, his mouth open to allow the stream of half-formed words and noises to pour out, made Sherlock's own prick tremble and his hips drive harder; he couldn't understand any of the words that the auctoratus was using, but he could make out the occasional _yes_ or _please_ , and the final word as his cock pulsed and spilled over his stomach was perfectly clear.

" _Oh, Sherlock!"_

And then there was no hope. His body reacted to the words before he'd quite registered what they were and he was doubled over, shouting John's name, while his brain still caught up to the fact that John had called out _his name_ as he climaxed and that he himself was climaxing now, bent over as his entire body convulsed with pleasure even as the older man's erection continued to throb and spend itself. Each wave of pleasure surpassed the one before until Sherlock screamed with it, wondered if it were possible to die of it, wondered if he would _mind_ if he died of it – only that would leave Mycroft on the throne, and that was less than ideal.

Finally it subsided, wave by wave until they both lay senseless and panting, Sherlock half on top of John until he recovered himself enough to roll off, the sheets twisting around his ankles from where they had been pushed away. "That," Sherlock panted after he caught his breath, "was –"

"Amazing," John finished, nodding slowly. "Entirely not what I was expecting. I… thank you, my Lord."

"Sherlock," he corrected, turning to face the older man, almost reaching for him but catching himself before his hands left his sides. "Thank _you._ Very much."

For a moment they lay there, side by side, panting and trembling with the tentative spasms of excitement still flooding their bodies. Then John huffed out a long, satisfied puff of air. "I will find something to clean you up a little," he said matter-of-factly, getting up. Sherlock would almost rather that the two of them simply fell asleep there, a tangle of sweat and other body fluids. But he understood John's discomfort, so he nodded.

"And yourself, John." He waved at the basin full of cool water by the window, indicating the cloths beside it. John dipped his head obediently.

Sherlock jumped at the first touch of the cold cloth; John ever-so-gently wiped the sweat from his face first, before moving on to his torso and right down to his feet. He mustered the strength to sit up just in time to see John neatly and efficiently clean the mess off his stomach and between his legs with a second cloth. He smiled lightly. Somehow being allowed to see the gladiator like _this_ , naked and unabashed without even the expectation of sex, was perhaps more intimate than what they had just done. Though not quite as satisfying or pleasurable.

When he was done, the older man stepped forwards and collected the fragments of his clothing from the ends of the bed. Sherlock frowned. "You are not staying?"

The arenarius looked up at him, his eyes wide. "I… I will stay if you wish me to, Sherlock."

Grinning, Sherlock patted the bed beside him and John climbed back in. Tentatively, the gladiator leaned closer to him and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. Sherlock took advantage of his closeness to snag his arms around the broader man's waist and trap him yet closer. "May I?" he asked, lying down with his arms around John to make it clear what he wanted.

John turned and rearranged himself so that his warm, strong hands were both resting on the small of Sherlock's back. "Please," he said, shifting so that the two of them were comfortable and bringing the sheets up to cover them. "I have missed this. Being intimate, being close to someone like this."

Sherlock placed his hand in the centre of John's chest, feeling the _thump_ of his heartbeat reverberating through his fingers. "As have I," he confessed, sighing in content and closing his eyes. His nose was just brushing against the corner of John's chin, and the smell of him was almost overwhelming. "Goodnight, John."

John's arms slowly clutched tighter around him. "Goodnight, Sherlock."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry – my visualisation of 'downtown' Romans as having Cockney accents is a long-term thing stemming from too many episodes of Horrible Histories.

"Enough!"

John grinned at the man pinned beneath the gaze of his swords before casting the weapons aside and helping him up. The taller, younger man smiled back at him, accepting the hand and climbing fluidly to his feet; he clapped John on the back in a friendly manner as they walked away, laughing raucously to each other about the various wrong moves each had made in the early-morning training. It was difficult to focus one's mind so soon after rising from sleep, especially if the night had been as interesting as John's.

"Watson!"

He cringed as he looked up from diligently wrapping his swords, but Lestrade was grinning as he wandered over, arms folded in a friendly manner. "The Emperor was not too rough for you, then?" he asked, his dark eyes softly teasing.

John smiled back at him. "I do not think he has it in him to be rough," he replied. "He is ever the perfect gentleman."

The lanista wrinkled his nose. "That does not sound like my Emperor," he mused, scratching at the stubble he had neglected to shave. "I have always attributed it to being in a position of such power, but he has always been dismissive and rude in my company."

John remembered Sherlock from the night before the last, snapping at him that he did not _observe_ , the flashes of irritation that clouded his face when John had stopped to ask him to explain something he had said. The way he so briskly handed out orders as though he had no doubt that they would be followed. And yet – from how John had always imagined an Emperor would behave, he was almost scrupulously polite. He had played at Emperor and Slave as a child through the streets like everyone else, a game which had led him to imagine first one Emperor, and then the next, as a harsh and unforgiving man who was really nothing like a man at all. Sherlock Holmes was nothing like he had expected.

"He was almost… _reverent,_ " he mused to the lanista. "As though he could barely believe that I would consent to be there with him. Every move he made, he would stop and check if it was all right –"

"Stop, please," Lestrade interrupted, holding up a careworn hand between them, his nose wrinkled again as though at a foul smell. "You are speaking of a man I remember teaching when he was five years old. I do not wish to know what he is like in the bedchamber."

John chuckled amiably. "Understandable," he accepted. Besides, anything beyond what he had already said seemed _private_ , something that Sherlock had shared with him and him alone, a trust the curly-haired man had bestowed upon him that he could not break. Insouciantly, he looked at the lanista out of the corner of his eye and leaned conversationally closer to him. "Although, he did this extraordinarily interesting thing where he –"

The older warrior pushed him, screwing his face up in disgust. John laughed, gathering his swords to leave the arena. Lestrade called him back. "In all seriousness, though, Watson," he said, "had your time with him impacted the way you behaved in the arena I would have strongly suggested he give you up."

"I understand," John accepted, gripping the wrapped hilt of his sword tighter. He wasn't sure that Sherlock would _agree_ to give him up – and wouldn't that put him in quite the situation? He resolved to train harder; quite apart from the fuss that the Emperor might cause if Lestrade had to talk to him, John himself did not want to give up the arrangement.

He had yet to see the downside to it. If he had thought that sleeping with the taller man was it, he had rethought the assumption the moment the Emperor had looked so bashful and asked him to treat him like a lover. On the one hand, he had the chance to find the men who had so brutally murdered his wife – and he had no doubt that Sherlock would turn a blind eye to what happened to them once he did – and on the other, he had the intimacy that he had missed and craved so much since he lost her.

Lying in Sherlock's arms – _Sherlock, Sherlock_ , he would have to stop thinking like that lest he address the Emperor so informally in company – he had truly realised how much he despised sleeping alone. How much he missed simply being in the company of someone he respected, who respected him.

And it was startling for him to realise how much he respected – liked – _admired_ Sherlock Holmes. As a man, he barely knew him, and yet already, he could not remember liking someone so much since the early days with Mary. And even then, it had taken more than barely five days for their attraction to form. There was simply something in Sherlock's erratic disposition, his fits of excitement and virility, the shine in his grey eyes when he lit upon something he deemed interesting, that John found endlessly fascinating – otherworldly, and at the same time oddly endearing.

He had not expected to find the previous night _arousing_ , but he had not expected Sherlock to take so much time to ensure that he did – even so, the _desire_ that he had experienced had shocked him. He had lain in the Emperor's enormous bed long after the younger man's breathing had evened into sleep against his chest, pondering the way that deep, charismatic voice groaning his name into his ear had made the hair on his arms stand up, the way his heart had twinged when a simple kiss had caused the ruler's knees to give out.

John sat through the evening meal with the other court gladiators barely able to contain his anticipation. He wondered whether he should be worrying more about the fact that it was not the prospect of finding Mary's attackers – which was slim for the night – that excited him, but the knowledge that he would find out more of the intricacies that comprised the Emperor's intimate character. And whether he should be more concerned about the way his mind occupied itself with the problem of how he could convince Sherlock that he wasn't about to leave, that he didn't have to treat John as though he were made of the most brittle clay. So that he wouldn't have to rein in the impulse to snap at the man when he continually stopped to ask permission for each kiss and caress.

Sherlock Holmes was sitting at the window again when John entered, perched on the edge of the sill with the black hooded cloak from the previous night draped over his knee, his longsword clutched tightly in his hands. He looked as though he, too, had been barely able to wait, and had been sitting in the utmost preparedness for quite some time, fidgeting in anticipation.

"My Lord," John introduced as he entered. His voice came out slightly husked and croaky, so he cleared his throat as Sherlock jumped and stood, clutching at the cloak. John had taken the cloak that he had worn back to his chambers at the Emperor's request, so he unfolded it.

Sherlock smiled. "John," he said warmly. "Lestrade informs me you performed admirably in training this morning."

He grinned appreciatively. "Should I lose my place as a gladiator in your court I would be heartbroken, my Lord." The lanky man smiled back, swinging the cloak over his shoulders in a graceful, practised sweep that sent the fabric billowing outwards. John donned his own cloak in a less dramatic manner, smiling at Sherlock's drama. The Emperor fastened his longsword with the slow, awkward movements of a man unsure quite what to say. John empathised: how was one supposed to greet a lover on the morning after? Especially when one had been prompted to leave the bedchamber before the other had awoken, pressing a soft kiss to their forehead that they would likely neither remember nor believe?

"I am sorry I left this morning, my Lord," he ventured finally. "I did not wish to be tardy to the arena but I assumed you would prefer I did not wake you."

He had had to edge inch by inch from underneath the Emperor, who had manoeuvred himself in the night to lie almost entirely on top of John in an endearingly possessive manner; he was surprised, in fact, that his shifting had not woken the man. Sherlock Holmes slept with the air of a man who did not do so often, and whose body therefore compensated by sleeping like the dead in the rare moments that he did choose to succumb. John had smiled to watch him there, his elegant face smoothed with sleep, his body wriggling in the sheets as though attempting to account for the loss of John underneath him.

Sherlock frowned. "I surmised where you had gone when I woke, of course," he said, shaking out his arms. "I think I would prefer you wake me in future."

John noticed that he did not _ask_ whether John consented to repeating the incident in the future, and counted that as progress. If the Emperor could not realise how much John had enjoyed himself then he could not be nearly as intelligent as John had credited him with. "As you wish, my Lord."

Sherlock Holmes seemed to snap then out of some reverie, straightening with a sharp intake of breath and making for the door. "Very good. Off we go, then."

They stopped before the final door to the court; Sherlock ducked quickly into a side-passage that John had not even noticed was there and returned with two torches. John took one; he had not entirely finished processing that the Emperor had left his side before he was back and already darting on ahead. He shook his head as he picked up his footsteps to catch up: he supposed it was a part of the role of Emperor and _infame_ that he would constantly be struggling to follow the younger man, but to have it reinforced in such a physically evident manner was not something he was prepared for. Sherlock Holmes moved from target to target faster than the elite archers John had seen at Ctesiphon.

He lit his torch, as the Emperor had done, from the bracket beside the door and hurried on; Sherlock was leaning against the side of an outhouse marking the corner of the cobbled street, his face bathed in reds and oranges from the torch, a look somewhere between impatience and indulgence twisting his mouth as he waited for John to catch up.

"Forgive an old soldier for lagging behind a little, my Lord," he lied as he got there, the Emperor pushing nonchalantly off the wall with his grey eyes dancing.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You are hardly infirm, Watson," he dismissed, turning on his heel to start down the next street.

John frowned at the sudden downgrade in familiarity. "Whatever happened to calling me 'John'?" he asked indignantly, once again picking up the pace before he was left behind.

The Emperor cast a disparaging glance backwards. "Whatever happened to calling me 'Sherlock'?" he replied in the same tone, not slowing down in the slightest. "Do keep up."

For a few steps John was unsure whether to laugh at his straightforward reasoning or be indignant at his insistence on setting this rather punishing pace; laughter won out fairly quickly. "All right," he growled, forcing his legs to give one final push until he stood beside the taller man. "You win, Sherlock."

As soon as John had caught up, the Emperor seemed to slow down to a more reasonable speed, effortlessly navigating the narrower streets until they were back at the street they had started at two nights before. In the torchlight, the bloodstain was eerily apparent – John shied away from it, unable to rid himself of the impression that it was jumping out at him. Sherlock looked up at him, frowning. "Are you all right?" he asked quietly.

John forced himself to snap out of it. "Of course," he replied. "It was… easier to look at under full cover of darkness."

Sherlock spared him a moment's sympathetic smile before bending the torch closer to examine the ground around the stain. "Ah! See, I was right. You can see here on the ground, the arrangement of footprints." He looked up as though expecting John to follow and look where he was pointing, but simply the thought of moving nearer to the smear of Mary's blood made his stomach turn. Sherlock turned back to it looking slightly put out.

"Under the torchlight we should easily follow the droplets. Even the footprints are visible. Are you ready?" he stopped for another brief concerned look before John forced his shoulders back and nodded.

The first corner led to a second, the two of them following the blood-splatters far easier than the night before last: Sherlock seemed to have eyesight far superior to John's, and so the Emperor had no trouble and was barely glancing at the ground before turning each corner and choosing each direction. At one point he stopped and bent over a patch of sandy street, almost singing his curly fringe from holding the torch so close to the ground, but after a moment tutted in irritation and carried on. "Brace yourself, John," he said suddenly, peering around the corner of a building before stepping out onto the street. "I think we may be drawing close."

John looked around the corner tentatively, but nothing out of the ordinary jumped out at him. "Why do you say that?"

Sherlock threw him an impatient glare. "Have you not been watching? The bloodstains have become progressively thicker on the ground. It is likely they would have waited until the dripping was minimal, and so the frequency and size of the stains are unlikely to increase much beyond this. Otherwise they would be easily noticed. Come along."

He was off again; John struggled to keep one eye on the supposed trail that they were following as he kept up with the man in front of him.

By the next time Sherlock paused for longer than a glance in each direction at a corner – before making a small noise and taking off in one direction or the other – John's torch had burned so low that it was flickering and gutting, making their shadows leap like assassins against the walls. He held it up to light the Emperor's face as Sherlock Holmes stopped in the middle of a secluded back-street. Without knowing why they had stopped, John could not prevent his mind from pointing out how perfect a spot this was for a murder.

"John," Sherlock murmured, his grey eyes glowing orange in the low torchlight. "Look there."

He hesitated for a moment, drawing a deep breath and preparing himself for the worst. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to be looking at, but he filled his mind with images of the bloody and rotten remains of a woman's stomach nonetheless. But when he finally did draw the courage to follow the Emperor's long fingers into a shady corner of the street, beside the refuse-pile of the house opposite, he squinted at the dirt for long minutes before turning back to the younger man. "What?" he asked.

Sherlock Holmes looked disbelieving. " _What?_ The… oh, Minerva. You people will never _look_ , will you? Look at the _sand_ , John."

Remembering Sherlock's various comments about the footprints in the other alley, John stepped closer and bent over the patch of sand he was being directed at. "It… is normal. There are no footprints, it looks barely disturbed. A clear patch of fresh sand."

" _Exactly_ ," Sherlock said, his voice thick with breathy exasperation. "It is _fresh._ Do you see? If you really _look_ you can see it is actually fresher than the surrounding sand. Someone has replaced the sand in this particular area but not even the street surrounding it. Can you think of a valid reason to do so that does not involve covering something on the sand below?"

John hardly tried to come up with alternate explanations before nodding. "So you think it was done here?"

Sherlock peered cautiously at the house to which the refuse pile belonged. "Shall we find out?" he said briskly, pulling the hood of his black cloak over his face further and gesturing towards the house.

"What," John questioned, nervously tugging at his own hood. "You wish to knock on the door?"

The Emperor held out his hands in an innocent gesture. "Problem?"

"Sherlock, it is the middle of the night." The man lifted his hands slightly to reinforce the gesture. "We cannot just knock on the door and wake them."

Sherlock tilted his head and raised the torch in his hand so that John could see the calculating expression manifesting itself over his sharp cheekbones. "No," he said, his voice suddenly lower, the corners of his mouth etching tiny dimple-like lines in his cheeks. "The man who lives here – lives here alone, has done for quite some time – shows characteristic signs of having served time in the military, likely elsewhere in the Empire. The things he has seen still haunt him at night and he finds it difficult to sleep. I would be hugely surprised if we woke him."

John stared at him. "How…" he began stupidly, lost track of what he was saying, and had to clear his throat and begin again. "How could you know all of that?"

The Emperor's mouth flinched into a tiny knowing smile. "I can see through the window into the kitchen," he said smugly. John stood on his tiptoes, praying Sherlock would not notice this was necessary to peer through the window, but he could see nothing that explicitly told the younger man any of the things he had said.

But Sherlock was already moving on, stepping up the stone ledge to rap his white knuckles on the wooden door, five quick knocks in rapid succession before stepping down again and sending a rakish grin in John's direction that for some reason made his knees weaken, a sudden flash of pure and innocent joy.

After a few minutes that stretched out endlessly between them, Sherlock stepped forwards and rapped on the door again, the same pattern of five knocks. They waited for another minute or so before John sighed. "Perhaps he _is_ asleep," he said wearily. "We can always come back. _I_ could come back alone, so that you would not be recognised."

Sherlock made a noise of frustration. "No. No, he cannot be. We would have woken him by now, in any case –"

"Oi! Whadd'you think you're doing, then – oh. Beggin' your pardon, sirs."

John looked at Sherlock – had the old woman recognised him? But he only caught the merest glimpse of the puzzled slant of Sherlock's mouth and chin before he ducked his head back out of view. "I am sorry, my dear woman," Sherlock rumbled after a moment, his voice fluid and deep and soothing. "Would you happen to know whether the gentleman who lives here is in?"

The woman pursed cracked lips. "He en't," she said finally. "He en't been in for days. Just sorta vanished, like. Never done that before, neither. He en't the disappearing type."

Sherlock peered through the window again; John still couldn't see his face, but he could _feel_ the frown from halfway across the street. "He just vanished," he repeated softly. "Interesting." With a sharp intake of breath, he stepped away from the house and spun back to John's side. "If you could tell us his name, we may begin to put out inquiries as to his whereabouts," he told the woman briskly.

"Sholto," the woman replied without hesitation. "Bartholomew Sholto."

John gave a start that prompted Sherlock to jump out of his way. "I know him!" he ejaculated, his entire body trembling with shock. "He was at Ctesiphon with me. He knew Mary's father!"

Underneath the hood, Sherlock Holmes brought pale fingers to prod tentatively at lush lips. "Interesting," he repeated softly.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock went striding off down an alley as soon as the word was spoken, his hands still held in front of his lips with his elbows spread to the side in a way that made his cloak billow behind him with a sort of dramatic flair. In the corner of his vision, John cast a final apologetic glance at the old lady and hurried after him, shaking his head.

"So Bartholomew Sholto knew Mary's father," he continued as John caught up, flicking his eyes quickly to the side to acknowledge him.

The dimachaerus nodded slowly. "He is a good man. He saved my life once – the barbarian was coming at my back and I failed to see him. Sholto lopped off his arm before he could strike me."

Sherlock looked at him, a smile playing unbidden with the corners of his mouth. "I shall have to thank him when we find him, then," he said lightly. "It seems I owe this man a great deal."

John chuckled dryly. "Perhaps," he said. "But I know he did not kill Mary."

"No," Sherlock agreed. "Tell me about his relationship with her father," he asked briskly. He could see the cogs working behind the gladiator's weatherbeaten face, twisting it into new shapes that made Sherlock's face in turn smile fondly at him.

"There were four of them," the auctorati said after a moment. "I forget the names of the others, but they were the most tightly knit group I had ever seen. They went everywhere together."

Sherlock tapped the curve of his lower lip once before lowering his hands. "Are you certain you cannot remember the names of the other two men? They may have information."

John tried: his whole face screwed up in concentration. Sherlock watched in consternation; thinking that difficult looked almost painful. He felt a sudden spasm of crippling fondness for the man in front of him. "I am sorry."

Sherlock shook his head quickly to get rid of the somewhat alarming notion that a fair amount of who he was seemed to rest in the hands of a volunteer gladiator. "No matter. There is nothing more we can do until morning. I can put out the word that I am looking for Bartholomew Sholto and it should not take long until we find him. For now I think we should go back to the court and get some rest."

John nodded perfunctorily. "Rest has been thin on the ground recently, I admit, with all of our nocturnal activities."

He chuckled. "Indeed. Much-needed rest for the both of us."

As they walked John sidled closer to the Emperor until their elbows bumped with each step; Sherlock smiled at the carefully deadpan expression on the other man's face, as though he hoped Sherlock would not notice the movement. Then, so slowly Sherlock was almost impressed by his subtlety, he reached out and clasped Sherlock's dry, long-fingered hands in his, threading their fingers together like a lover's. Sherlock looked down at him in surprise, but when John simply smiled up at him he grinned back, his body relaxing into John's, idly discussing the army and the streets of John's childhood as they strolled through those same streets. He had never done anything quite like it, never felt anything quite like the excessive calm and _peace_ that he felt when John slowed things down.

"Shall I come back to the palace with you? You may as well keep the cloak. If I store it in the gladiator's quarters someone is bound to ask about it at some time."

Sherlock smiled coyly. "You could always hand it to me and I could take it back myself."

The older man grinned in return. "I could," he agreed, squeezing the Sherlock's hand slightly. "Or I could simply walk you home."

He squeezed back. "I suppose you could."

It was a strange feeling, the warmth flooding his stomach at the knowledge that John wished to prolong their contact for as long as possible. It made him feel oddly vulnerable, and yet he found himself loath to complain. Allowing the smile to show upon his face, Sherlock held John's hand tighter and picked up his pace.

"Would you race me back?" he asked suddenly, feeling as though he could beat the fastest sprinters in the old Olympian track games.

John looked at him sideways, looking momentarily shocked, before breaking out into a sudden, brilliant grin and tearing off down the sanded street. Sherlock blinked at the unexpected fervour from the older man before clueing in and racing off after him.

The wind made a brilliant searing sound as it sped past his ears and the cloak billowed out behind him, completely useless as the shield it was supposed to be against any passers-by as the hood blew violently off his face, leaving him vulnerable to a freshening burst of wind on his face, and he was laughing out loud with the joy of it all, feeling the burn in his legs as he caught up to the gladiator and then overtook him, sending a shouted "Keep up, John!" back at him that was almost lost in the wind. Evidently the gist of it survived, though, because John was laughing back and putting on an extra burst of speed; they were neck and neck, and the wall of the palace caught up with them so fast Sherlock almost didn't see it coming until it was right in front of him. There was just enough time for him to stick out his hands to brace himself for impact before he hit the wall, barely a moment before John did the same.

Laughing, he reached for the gladiator, who was doubled up and wheezing but straightened as Sherlock's arms encroached on his line of sight. John laughed and stepped closer, and then they were kissing, adrenaline still bubbling beneath the surface of Sherlock's skin, and every slide of lips on lips set fire to his nerves.

John had stopped giggling when they broke apart in favour of panting, and Sherlock thought that maybe he should have let the both of them catch their breath before he took over the use of his mouth. Actually, he thought, watching the older man lean against the wall and heave in deep breaths, perhaps he should not have forced John into the kiss at all.

"Sorry," he said quickly, picking up the hood of his cloak and casting it back over his head. "I was… carried away, I should have asked before forcing you into anything."

He made to turn away, but John reached up and caught the curve of his jaw in his fingers, and Sherlock could barely move with the gladiator's hands on his skin more than turning back in the direction they were guiding him. When he was once more facing his shorter counterpart, John's hand reached up to knock the hood back from his face again. "I am more upset with you hiding now than I could ever be with you kissing me," he said quietly, his fingers toying with a stray lock of hair over Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock reached up to the hood again. "Someone might see," he protested.

"There is no-one _to_ see, Sherlock," John retorted, leaning forwards and placing a chaste, simple kiss at the corner of his mouth.

He couldn't help but smile, reaching down to link their fingers together again. "Would you come inside with me? Just for a while."

John grinned again. "I said I would walk you home. All the way to your bedchamber doors."

"Thank you."

When they reached the door, Sherlock turned hesitantly, not quite willing to let go of his arenarius just yet. He smiled to see a similar expression on the gladiator's face and, slowly this time, leaned in for a lingering kiss. "Come inside," he commanded gently. John just smiled.

"Would you… mind if I… I mean, would you like me to stay?" the older man asked hesitantly, folding the black cloak nervously before replacing it on the trunk.

Sherlock blinked. The gladiator watched him, his face carefully blank, but he thought he could almost catch a trace of nerves, of a longing for approval, in those blue-green eyes. He smiled slowly. "Would you _like_ to stay?"

He wondered briefly whether that was perhaps pushing too far; he could tell that John obviously _did_ want to stay, but he'd phrased it like a suggestion of something _Sherlock_ might want rather than something he himself wanted. While this might by others be seen as common courtesy to the Emperor, he'd already established that John Watson was not the type. He'd phrased it like that because he wanted Sherlock to order him to stay. Sherlock wanted him to admit that he wanted to, but overall he _did_ want the gladiator to stay; perhaps he should have just accepted the offer, making it sound like an order.

John Watson deliberated for a few moments. Sherlock could see the moral obligation, his loyalty to Mary, battling with the human desire for comfort in the kind wrinkles around his eyes. Then the gladiator nodded to himself. "I would. If it is your wish, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded sharply, smiling. "I would like that very much."

So the older man shed his clothes until he was clad only in his loincloth and sat cross-legged on the bed, waiting patiently while Sherlock relieved his bladder and splashed the cold water from the basin over his face. He noticed that the other man did not avert his eyes while his Emperor disrobed, and wondered suddenly whether John expected to undergo some form of sexual activity. He had simply expected to repeat the exercise of the night before in falling asleep with his head on the gladiator's shoulder and his long legs tangled with shorter ones, but stripping to his loincloth with those steady eyes on him caused a flicker of desire to spark in his gut.

The man pulled back his sheets and pummelled his pillow briefly, readying the bed for him like a servant might. Sherlock frowned at him, but climbed into the space he had made nonetheless, patting the pillow beside him. "Lie with me," he ordered softly.

John smiled and slipped between the sheets, holding still as Sherlock captured his body in his own limbs and rubbed his curly hair against the arenarius' shoulder, insinuating his strong arms around the Emperor's chest and linking his fingers.

Just sleeping it was, then. Sherlock sighed contentedly; with each breath in he caught a noseful of John's smell, and now after the race back he smelt as he had last night when they lay like this, after…

He tried to stop himself thinking about the reason John had smelt like that last night, like sweat and exertion and contentment, but it was useless. He inched his groin away from the gladiator's side instead as it began to twitch and swell, hoping the older man wouldn't notice and it would perhaps go away on its own.

The dimachaerus' calloused hand gently travelled up his side and down again to his hip in a motion that was supposed to be soothing but instead served to add to the sparks of arousal shooting through his body, as though John's fingers were tinder against the flint of Sherlock's skin and the one caressing the other would lead to Sherlock's entire body being set alight. He drew in a shaky breath and shifted to allow his growing erection a little more comfort.

He could hear John's heartbeat from where his ear was pressed against the other man's side, and attempted to distract himself with the noise, deep and steady. It _sounded_ like John; sometimes quicker, sometimes slower, but always constant in its steady _one-two_ rhythm like the march of a soldier.

It was also slightly faster than it perhaps should have been for a resting pulse.

Did this mean John was also aroused? He could feel his own heart, bashing around in his chest like a mad frog. John's was nowhere near as fast as that, but all the same… Sherlock feigned a yawn and bent the leg that was on top of John's, sliding his knee up the gladiator's body until it brushed innocently against his groin.

No. Not aroused, then. Sherlock let the leg back down, wincing when the movement rolled his body closer to his lover's and let the bulge in his loincloth rub gently against the other man's leg.

John took a deeper breath, and Sherlock thought he could feel him smiling. "Sherlock," he began gently.

"I am fine," he said quickly, hoping John would pass off the breathless, shaky tone of his voice as something unrelated to the condition between his legs.

No such luck; he could definitely _hear_ the smile in the older man's voice as he spoke again. " _Sherlock_ ," he repeated. "Would you like me to take care of that for you?"

His breath caught. "No, it will be fine," he dismissed shortly. He had promised, after all; one night for avenging Mary, one for lying with John. He didn't want to push his lover emotionally, and he knew his own body was not up to any strenuous activity after the sprint back.

John Watson shifted until he could look his Emperor in the eye. The movement caused the hand not continuing lazy caresses up and down his back to slip from his hip and rest heavily on his abdomen instead. Sherlock bit his lip as John looked at him seriously. "Would you… _allow_ me to take care of it?"

The difference seemed minute, and perhaps to another man it would not have been noticeable. But Sherlock recognised the intent behind it. _Like_ suggested it was something John offered to do in service to his Emperor. _Allow_ suggested it was something that John _wanted_ to do. He'd been so careful to keep the gladiator informed of what he wanted from their 'relationship', and this wasn't the first 'out' he'd offered him. John had turned down the others this quickly, too. In a weaker man, it could perhaps have been dismissed as fear of displeasing the Emperor, but John Watson was not weak.

He wasn't sure how, but it looked as though he might have begun to win the gladiator's heart already. Sherlock held his breath, and nodded.

The hand on his abdomen moved south as John's lips moved forward, and both made contact with their respective goals at the same time; Sherlock pressed into the gentle kiss as John's hand slid over his groin, cupping and squeezing tentatively. A small contented noise escaped his mouth and he rocked his hips forward lazily.

John pulled his lips away from Sherlock's, only to press them a moment later into the hollow of his chin, parting them to slide his hot tongue down the line of the Emperor's throat and rest his nose in the dip of his collarbone. Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his head back as one sword-worn hand continued to work so _gently_ through the folds of his loincloth. He may be on his way faster than anticipated to owning John's heart, but John already _had_ his. He suddenly imagined what Mycroft would say if he could see them like this, Sherlock stretched out mostly-naked and so _vulnerable_ with a man who wielded two swords and killed people for a living licking, sucking and _biting_ at his collarbone, the outline of his pectorals, blowing gently on his nipples.

The previous night Sherlock had been completely in control the whole time, guiding John and cradling him and taking care of him. That bore almost no resemblance to this, to John's warm hand resting on his side as a warning not to move, to this _panther_ of a man touching him so gently, in control while Sherlock lay back and closed his eyes against the sensations John's mouth and hands were flooding his body with. _Because he wanted to._ Somehow that made the feelings even sharper.

He imagined, suddenly, what it would be like to _completely_ surrender control to this man, how different it would be if he were still because he was _tied_ that way, or pinned down, rather than simply because he could sense it was what his lover wanted. Sherlock's entire body shuddered with arousal.

"John…" he begged. The gladiator released his nipple from between his teeth and looked up at him with a look of such innocence Sherlock almost laughed.

Gently – always so _gently_ – the gladiator pressed a chaste kiss over Sherlock's heart and wriggled down his body until his face was level with his Emperor's groin.

Sherlock struggled to control his breathing. Other people had done this to him, but always with a hint of condescension in their eyes, like they thought him childish; he might have been tempted to punish them for it if he hadn't been aware that this was most of their way of justifying such things to themselves. No-one had ever offered it to him like John was, looking at him with a question in his eyes like he _wanted_ to, and wasn't sure if it was what _Sherlock_ wanted.

John carefully removed the loincloth, using his own strength to lift Sherlock's hips and whisk the fabric off the edge of the bed before lowering him back down. He pressed a light, teasing kiss to the head of Sherlock's penis before looking up at him, something in his eyes that the Emperor couldn't quite place.

"Before last night, had anyone ever told you that you were beautiful?" he asked, his voice soft.

Sherlock tried to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat. "Not like that," he replied. People had told him he was beautiful, attractive, striking – praised him physically before, but underneath it there was always an undercurrent of deference reminding him that they only said it because of the power he held, whether they liked the way he wielded it or not. No-one had ever said it like John just had, plainly, _reverently_ , and yet Sherlock believed it when John said it.

John Watson smiled. "Well, you are, if I may say it again. Extremely." He bent his head again, narrowing his eyes at the organ in front of him. "I… I have never done this before, so…"

"You do not have to," Sherlock reminded him. John shot him a quick frown before tentatively poking out his tongue and licking the glossy head. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath at the sudden wet warmth. " _John,_ " he gasped out, his hands clenching into fists full of bedlinen. The other man smiled up at him, licked his lips, and then wrapped his lips around the top half of Sherlock's penis, his tongue squirming firmly around the underside.

He couldn't help but moan. John's mouth was warm and soft and slick, and the slide of his tongue sent shivers of pleasure rippling out through his body, curling his toes and tensing his abdomen. "Oh, John," he groaned, sliding a hand down his belly to card his fingers through the gladiator's hair. John hummed, a deep noise of contentment. Sherlock's hips twitched helplessly upwards, pressing desperately against the constraint of the fighter's arm pressed against his hipbones, holding him down.

For never having done it before, John's mouth was unfairly talented; Sherlock could do nothing but grasp handfuls of his sheets and John's hair and scrabble against his shoulders until one sword-calloused hand came up to grasp his fingers and prise them away from his neck. John's lips tightened around Sherlock's arousal and he thought he might actually be seeing a fond smile stretching out his mouth. Giving up the plot entirely, Sherlock let his head hit the pillow and his eyes close and the sensation of John's tongue flicking against his tip overwhelm him.

He thought he may be making noise, but it wasn't important and it wasn't as though he would be able to stop anyway. The most he could do against the earth-shattering wave of pleasure that felt as though it was ripping apart his very insides was tug uselessly at John's shoulder to warn him right before his mind exploded into bliss.

The older man swallowed thickly and crawled back up Sherlock's body as he panted and trembled, wrapping his arms around him and holding him safe and firm. Sherlock placed a tremulous kiss to his temple and tried to ignore the smug look on his face.

So when an erection poked into the top of his hip, Sherlock took his own opportunity to be smug, despite the fact that the climax had sapped what little energy he had left until he could barely keep his eyes open. "Would you like me to take care of that for you, John?" he asked lightly.

John chuckled into his shoulder. "If I know myself, it should still be there in the morning," he said sleepily. "Save it until I have the energy to appreciate it."

"I will hold you to that," Sherlock assured him, feeling his eyes slide closed. "When you wake me before you leave."

There was a pause as John shifted hesitantly. "I… there is no training in the morning. If you like, I could stay."

Sherlock smiled, clutching his lover tighter. "Good." Waking lazily in John Watson's arms sounded like a dream come true. He stretched indolently. "Then I shall see you in the morning."

"Yes," John agreed, chuckling again in a satisfied manner. "You will."


	9. Chapter 9

John woke slowly in someone's arms, long toes digging into his lower calf and thick curls halfway up his nostrils. It should not have been pleasant, but he smiled and clutched his Emperor tighter to him nonetheless.

Sherlock hummed, a long, low, gravelly noise of contentment, and shifted his head in a manner that somehow wedged his hair even further up John's nose. The urge to sneeze rocketed from uncomfortable to unbearable; John quickly shoved the Emperor's face out of the firing line and succumbed. Sherlock chuckled lowly. "You need a haircut," John teased, running a hand soothingly through the curls.

As if to spite him, the taller man rubbed his head against John's chest and stretched indolently. "My apologies," he purred, shifting so that his groin poked against John's leg. John laughed in response, tilting his hips up so that Sherlock could feel his own arousal clearly. The other man drew in a sharp breath, staring up at him, and crawled slowly until their heads were level. "Good morning," he said softly.

John smiled contentedly. "Good morning," he agreed.

It hit him all over again then, just how much he had _missed_ this: not simply being physically intimate with someone else, but this specifically, this waking up with the sun streaming through the window and warming the very corners of his heart while another body curled lazily around his, this wanting to bury himself in said other body's arms and never acknowledge the world again because he had everything he would ever need wrapped around him like a womb.

It struck him, too, that he was very happy here with Sherlock Holmes, happy in a way he had not expected ever to be again. The thought left him slightly breathless, and so he reached for Sherlock to have something to cling onto.

The taller man complied with fond and lazy ease, wrapping long arms around the narrow point of John's waist and drawing them so close that their noses brushed together and kissing seemed inevitable.

Sherlock, though, opened the activity with a stroke of long fingers down John's jaw and a whisper of slightly sour breath: "Do you mind?"

He answered by _doing_ it, but he wondered as their mouths dipped and danced together how long it would take before his proclaimed lover was comfortable enough to take _without_ asking.

The kiss reflected the rest of the morning, lazy and comfortable, and it built gently until both men were almost unconsciously rocking their hips together for the simple joy of having someone to meet each thrust and wriggle. Sherlock's warm hand met and mapped the bare skin of John's chest, sliding eagerly downwards before stopping at the bulge of fabric over his groin. His full lips pulled away from John's thinner ones in order to pant and mumble the broken beginnings of yet _another_ search for permission. "Do you… may I…"

Frustrated, John broke away from kiss and embrace entirely and propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at his Emperor. "Sherlock," he said, frowning as he wondered quite how to phrase the problem.

The aforenamed shared the frown. "John," he rumbled. John's thought process was alarmingly derailed at the cadence of that low voice, but he hauled it determinedly back again.

"You told me when we began this that you wanted a lover," he started, still unsure if he was saying the right things, in the right order. "I… have been a lover. Perhaps I have a different understanding of the term from yourself."

At this Sherlock too propped himself onto one elbow. "Meaning?" he asked, sounding slightly alarmed.

John swallowed. "My understanding of _love_ is that it works because the people involved believe themselves to be equals, personally, no matter their stations." He reached out and smoothed the frown that had formed on Sherlock's face. "It terrifies me for someone in my position to be addressing _you_ as informally as I have been," he admitted. "But I have tried nonetheless, because for this to work, I must believe that wherever in society we each were born and live, as _people_ we are equals."

He could see the insinuation dawn on Sherlock, and it hurt _him_ to see the hurt on the younger man's face. "What is it?" Sherlock asked. "I do sincerely believe that you and I are equals, John. Please tell me what I have done to make you think otherwise."

John wanted to burrow into Sherlock's embrace and apologise for hurting him, but he had started this now and he would see it through. "I am not sure you realise you are doing it," he consoled the younger man. "But you are constantly second-guessing yourself, _still_ acting as though you are forcing me to be here against my will."

Sherlock frowned at him. "But I am," he said sadly.

John sat up with a huff. "Do you honestly believe that?" he asked. "With all the opportunities you have given me to leave, to take what I want and give nothing in return, do you really still think that I would still be here if I did not want to be?" He reached out to touch Sherlock again, and ended up grasping his hand. "I _want_ to be your lover," he assured him. "I want you to _trust_ that I want to be your lover, to trust that if I am not comfortable with something, I will say, and stop asking for _permission_ as though I am about to refuse. Being a _lover_ means that my body belongs to you, and yours to me – if I wish to touch you, I will do so, and I trust that if the touch is not welcome, you will tell me. Do you understand what I mean?"

Still frowning mightily, Sherlock nodded. "I just do not want you to leave," he said, his voice smaller than ever.

John leaned forwards and kissed his forehead gently. "I am not going to leave," he assured him. Then he reached down and untied his loincloth. "Now, you offered to take care of this," he teased, indicating his erection.

To his relief, the familiar indulgent smirk crossed Sherlock's face. "Yes, I believe I did," he agreed, reaching for it.

John quickly rolled them over so that he sat astride Sherlock's soft belly. While the younger man was still blinking in surprise, he reached down and grasped his own arousal.

Sherlock looked at him in shock, and John couldn't help but giggle and stroke himself a little at the look on his face. Teasingly, he raised an eyebrow as if to say, _what are you going to do about it?_

Tentatively, pausing every few moments as though the gesture was a struggle against nature, the Emperor reached out and wrapped his long fingers around John's penis. John gasped – Sherlock's fingers were thinner and more dextrous than his own, and they caught on his foreskin on every upstroke in a way that made him shudder and groan. When, after a few minutes, Sherlock placed his tongue between his teeth in concentration and employed his other hand to heft and cup John's testicles, he gave a final grunt of his _lover's_ name and emptied himself over his chest and neck.

He closed his eyes for a moment to better regain his breath, leaning over Sherlock with one hand on his chest, feeling the frantic _thumpthumpthump_ of his heart. When he opened them again, the younger man had stretched out his tongue for the most adventurous stream of ejaculate on his chin. John helped him out by catching the drop on his finger and sliding it between the taller man's heart-shaped lips. Sherlock sucked on it greedily.

When he was done and both men had caught their breaths, John slid down Sherlock's body until he could feel his lover's arousal against the cleft of his rear. "Take what you need," he said softly.

Slowly, his eyes never leaving John's, Sherlock's hands moved to grip John's hips tightly and push him another inch backwards. Then the lanky ruler whimpered, tipped his head back, and started to thrust.

John had not been a young man for quite some time – and certainly had not _felt_ it in gladiatorial dress – but the raw _desperation_ in the young man's movements, as though his mind had entirely deserted him to pleasure, stirred something in him again. He thrust back, grinding Sherlock's erection between his cheeks. Within a minute of this, the younger man squeezed John's hips and held him down hard as warm fluid splashed across John's back.

Sherlock breathed a moment, then lunged upwards into a kiss, which John returned eagerly. Gently, he pressed forwards and lowered them both to the bed.

"I love you," the Emperor of Rome panted in his ear.

John couldn't help a huff of amazement at the declaration. "Why?" he asked before he could stop himself.

Sherlock pressed an open-mouthed kiss to John's neck. "I am not sure," he said, and John wondered whether his pure and joyful smile wasn't the most beautiful thing in the Empire. "But it is wonderful."

They lay lazily in the gigantic bed for most of the morning, before Sherlock directed them to the court's arena. "I believe Lestrade would be the best person to start enquiries about Sholto," the Emperor voiced – though John was only half-listening due to Sherlock's occupation at the time. It was difficult to concentrate on anything but the sight of the tall man winding and tying the customary fabric of a loincloth over his groin.

Eventually, though, the sun raised itself so high it no longer came through the window and onto the bed, and so they wandered slowly down to the arena, hands clasped, John walking slowly and stiffly to disguise the fact that the Emperor had deemed his loincloth unfit to wear. He flinched at each gust of wind, unsure whether to act irritated or laugh at the fact that Sherlock gave a rich, delighted chuckle at each awkward tug John administered upon his toga.

Lestrade eyed their joined hands with a wry smile. John noticed that Sherlock was smiling back with a sort of bewildered joy, and his heart swelled a little in his chest.

"My Lord," the lanista greeted when they were close enough. "John, I am afraid I have some alarming news." John reflexively clutched Sherlock's hand tighter, raising his eyebrows questioningly. "They have found Bartholomew Sholto."

Sherlock shifted. "I had not yet informed you we were looking for him," he said, sounding startled.

Lestrade frowned. "I was not aware that you were, my Lord," he answered. "I simply knew that John was acquainted with him. I am sorry, I could find no-one closer to him – he has been killed."

John was very aware of Sherlock going still beside him. "Could you take us there?"

"Of course, my Lord," Lestrade demurred; Sherlock instantly dropped John's hand in favour of clapping his own together excitedly. John frowned; he wasn't quite prepared to see the body of an old army comrade without wearing a loincloth. The silvery-haired man smiled at him. "Would you wait a moment, my Lord?" he asked wryly. "I believe John would like to change first."

For a moment Sherlock looked confused and frustrated. Then his eyes flickered to John's groin and lingered there. "Yes," he said, his own face twisting into a slightly wicked smile. "I think that might be wise."

Utterly mortified, John tried to keep his shoulders back he stalked off to his quarters.

* * *

The body of Bartholomew Sholto lay on the other side of the city from Mary's, but despite this the sight was so familiar than the barest glimpse of it sent him reeling back down the alleyway to empty the sparse contents of his stomach onto the sand.

To his surprise, it was Lestrade whose hand was on his shoulder as he recovered, smiling sympathetically. He held his breath a moment to ensure his stomach would obey him, then returned the smile weakly. "Where is he?" he asked.

Lestrade jerked his head back towards the body. "The Emperor… when he finds something to occupy his mind, he pursues it to the exclusion of all else."

Sure enough, a demanding shout of, "John!" summoned him from around the corner. Breathing deeply to stay calm, John ventured back into the alley. Sherlock was crouched over the body, but his attention was on the symbol that had been daubed in blood on the wall of the nearest house. "John," he continued as he heard their footsteps behind him. "Do you think –"

He turned then to look at him, and John must not have kept his face clear enough, because the Emperor's fell quickly into an expression of utter horror. "Oh, John," he said, approaching him hesitantly. "I am so sorry. I did not think – if you need to leave…"

John leaned into Sherlock's arms as they wrapped around him. "I am all right," he said, not sure if it was a lie or not. "What were you asking me?"

Sherlock studied him for a moment. "Would you look at the body?" he asked carefully. "I understand if you would rather not. I can summon a physician. I wish to ascertain which of his wounds caused his death."

He smiled, his fine-boned face still etched with worry; John breathed deeply and smiled back. "From here, I think we can say it was not the stomach," he said. "But I think it would be wise to summon a physician. I am hardly qualified to make a judgment."

"If you'll forgive me for bringing it up," Sherlock mused, his eyes back on the corpse, "Mary's body was similarly disfigured, but death was caused by a stroke to the neck. It is possible that the two were killed by the same people, although _that_ –" he waved a hand at the sign on the wall – "was not present at Mary's murder."

John swallowed. Sherlock's hand found his again, clasping it tightly. "Can you read, John?" the Emperor asked quietly.

"A little," John admitted. "I can count proficiently, though," he added.

Sherlock smiled. "Count?" he repeated, inflecting it like a question but without surprise.

John nodded towards the symbol. "That sign is a number, is it not?"

The smile widened, became something delighted, even _proud_. "Yes, it is," the younger man said slowly, turning back to look at it. "The sign of four, in fact."

It was Lestrade who spoke next, making John jump – he had almost forgotten that the lanista was still in the alley with them. " _Four_? But that could mean anything. Four bodies, four days, four months – "

Sherlock tutted in exasperation, dropping John's hand and turning to the stocky lanista instead. "Yes, _thank you_ , Lestrade," he said testily. "Under the circumstances, though, I think the answer should be obvious. John, you said there were four of them, in the army? Mary's father, Sholto, and two others, yes?"

John tore his eyes away from the numeral on the wall and nodded. Sherlock repeated the gesture. "Four friends. There must be something, something they _knew_ , or something they _did_ – are you certain you cannot remember the names of the other two, John?"

"I am sorry," John told him. "I never had much to do with them, other than Mary's father. I only knew Sholto's name because that woman mentioned it first."

For a moment the Emperor paced up and down the alley, his footsteps churning a neat oval into the sand. "Do you think Mary's mother would know?"

John shrugged. "I am not sure. It is possible he may have mentioned them to her."

Sherlock hesitated. "Would she mind, do you think? If we visited her and brought it up again?"

"I am certain that if it helps to find the people that killed Mary, she will help us," John assured him, hoping that it was the truth.

The Emperor smiled brightly, clapping his hands together again. "Well, then," he said, his voice sharp and clear and delighted in a way that made John smile involuntarily. "We had best do that tonight."


	10. Chapter 10

Nightfall found Sherlock two steps behind John Watson as he knocked on his late wife's mother's door.

The excitement of occupation, of turning a puzzle over in his mind and looking for the slots to make it click together, buzzed through his mind like an insect. Bartholomew Sholto's body had thrown the cold case of Mary Watson's murder into new light; they were on a trail now, and Sherlock's every nerve hummed with the thrill of following it. Less familiar, though, was the tiny sour note of concern for John underlying it. He hadn't thought about it when they'd gone to see the body, but this was the second familiar face John had been forced to see lying dead in an alleyway. Sherlock had never been so concerned with how another person would react before, and he didn't want to hurt Mary's mother, either – he wasn't quite sure what questions he would be allowed to ask without either of them becoming upset.

He fidgeted nervously on the front doorstep for a moment until John nudged him lightly on the arm. "You do not have to be so nervous," he said softly.

Sherlock returned his timid smile. "I do not wish to upset her," he replied, also keeping his voice down in case she was about to answer the door. "But the questions I wish to ask are about upsetting matters. And…" he paused, not sure if his other worry was valid or whether John would laugh. "You were married to her daughter, and I am your lover. That naturally makes me the enemy, does it not?"

John did not laugh; he smiled for a moment, and then frowned as though having second thoughts about Mrs Morstan's reaction. "I believe that would be the case, were her daughter still living," he said slowly. "But if you are worried, we do not have to tell her that we are lovers."

_I want everyone in the Roman Empire to know that we are lovers._ He didn't say it, but John must have seen something in his eyes, because he smiled and patted Sherlock's upper arm comfortingly. "She will like you," he assured him. "Everyone likes you."

Sherlock could think of a number of exceptions to that apparent rule. In fact, the only people he could think of that _did_ like him were John and Lestrade. He smiled tentatively back; John took his hand and squeezed it.

Claudia Morstan's door swung open. Sherlock restrained the urge to tug his cowl further over his face as her broad, friendly-looking one fell into a concerned frown. "Can I help you?" she asked, sounding worried.

John reached up to his own hood and pushed it back, smiling. Instantly, the woman's face relaxed, and then she was wrapping John in a welcoming hug. Thin and petite as she was, John emerged from the hug looking as though he were having trouble breathing. Claudia Morstan's red-brown hair – evidently the source of Mary's – had begun to tumble from the tight bun she had scraped it into and fall about her cheeks. She had the look of someone who would in her prime have been both beautiful and kind, and Sherlock found himself relaxing in her presence, as though she were somehow _familiar_ to him. When she had finished hugging John, she gestured him inside and smiled at Sherlock.

"Can I ask who your friend is?" she asked, eyeing the hood.

John smiled back. "He wants to help," he said softly. Claudia stepped aside to let him into the house, and Sherlock smiled at her, stooping to avoid bumping his head on the low doorframe. The hood covered his eyes, but his mouth at least should be visible.

Once inside, she turned back to John. "I was not sure I would ever hear from you again," she said, her voice suddenly sounding stern. "Arrian told me you had joined the gladiators. I thought before I could ever speak to you again you would be dead."

The dimachaerus had sat down at the rickety kitchen table, so Sherlock sat beside him and was slightly surprised when John reached for his hand again beneath its surface, where Claudia couldn't see. He squeezed it as John took a deep breath. "I loved Mary very much," he said quietly. Claudia's face softened. "I was lost when she died. I could think of nothing else to do – and I do honestly believe that it was the right decision."

Slowly, Claudia Morstan sat down. John leaned forwards. "I am here because my friend has been helping me to discover who it was that ended Mary's life," he said, in a soft and even voice that Sherlock envied. If he could speak like that, of _course_ everyone would like him. "If it is too much to remember, we will drop the subject. But we believe you may be able to help."

Claudia looked at Sherlock. "May I know _why_ I am not permitted to know the identity of your friend?" she asked, her voice slightly frosty.

Sherlock glanced at John; the gladiator wore a pained expression. So he reached back and knocked the hood back onto his shoulders.

The woman gasped and immediately shoved the chair out from underneath her feet in order to sink to her knees. "My Lord," she said quickly. "I apologise for my rudeness, I did not know –"

"Please, Mrs Morstan," Sherlock said, panicking slightly. He had known she would react similarly to this, but he didn't want her to think that she _had_ to answer his questions if they were going to hurt her. "Please get up. I am here as a friend, not an Emperor."

She knelt for a moment longer, but she lifted her head to look at him and he tried to smile reassuringly. She looked at John, who nodded encouragingly, and then slowly stood up and regained her seat. "Why are you helping us, my Lord?"

Sherlock thought for a moment about her question before answering, "Because it is what John wants. And I believe he deserves to get that."

He shot John a quick smile. The gladiator's response to his sudden declaration that morning was still at the front of his mind: he had not expected him to return the sentiment, of course, but he could not deny that John's disbelief and subsequent change of subject had not hurt. But John had said, not half an hour before Sherlock had let the _I love you_ out of his mouth where it had been jittering since the previous night, that he _wanted_ to be Sherlock's lover. And perhaps, given time, that could mean the same thing.

_Why_ , John had asked. Sherlock didn't know why. The dimachaerus didn't fit any of the tales of love Sherlock's mother had told him in her rare maternal moments – he was not so extraordinarily beautiful that he took Sherlock's breath away, and nor had they grown up together like the Greek Achilles and Patrocles or saved each other's lives – but that, perhaps conversely, was how Sherlock knew that it _was_ love, and not simply some expectation forced on him by his mother's fancies. Somehow, John was something that Sherlock had been missing all his life without knowing it.

After a moment Sherlock leaned forwards across the table to explain the situation to the older woman. "The body of a man named Bartholomew Sholto was found yesterday. Did you know him?"

Claudia Morstan looked from John to Sherlock. "Yes, my Lord," she said hesitantly. "He was a friend of my late husband's in the military, we had him in the house a few times before he passed away. You knew him too, John, did you not?"

"Yes," John agreed. "I remember he and your husband were very close, but I also remember two other men with them."

"On the wall beside Sholto's body whoever murdered him painted the number four," Sherlock took over, resting his fingertips together before his lips as his elbows held him up on the table. "As in _four friends_. I think it may be a feud between the four of them, a secret betrayed or a keepsake stolen, and one of them believes they are owed by the others, wants revenge for the injustice. Or someone else feels betrayed by the four of them. Either way, the obvious next step in the investigation would be to find the last two men, only John cannot remember their names. We were hoping perhaps your husband mentioned them, or you may have met them and remembered them."

He narrowed his eyes as Claudia frowned in concentration. "One of them was Sholto's younger brother," she said slowly; John gave a sharp intake of breath beside Sherlock. "But he died on campaign in the military at least ten years ago. Poor man. He was lovely."

John was nodding. "I cannot believe I had forgotten," he said softly. "He died a few months after I was sent back."

"Okay," Sherlock said judiciously, tapping his fingertips against his lower lip. John's eyes flickered to the point of contact, distracted, and Sherlock flicked him a quick smirk. "So if the murderer was in this group, it must be the last man."

Claudia was frowning mightily now. "I am not sure," she said. "I remember him. He visited me when Mark died – he was also wounded at Ctesiphon. I am not sure he is capable of such brutal murder with only one leg."

Sherlock felt his eyebrows shoot into his hair. That certainly _did_ make it less likely that he was the murderer, assuming he was working alone. "Can you remember his name?" he asked nonetheless: if it was _not_ him, then at least he may know more about who it may be. And hopefully they could find him and move him to safety before the real murderer did. "I would still like to speak to him."

"Small," Claudia replied with a tiny smile. "I remember finding it amusing because he was a very tall, broad man. Jonathan Small."

After a confirming glance at John, who nodded slowly, Sherlock lowered his hands from his lips. "Thank you," he said to her. "I will set people to find him tomorrow."

For a moment they sat in silence; Claudia stood up and filled a cup from a pitcher of water on the bench. "May I offer you wine, my Lord? Or water?"

Sherlock smiled kindly at her. "Water would be lovely, thank you," he said. His every instinct was screaming at him to remove himself from this too-domestic situation, but John's body language clearly stated that he wanted to stay, so Sherlock obliged him.

"How are you, Claudia?" John asked softly as she sat down again, carefully placing a cup of water in front of each of them. "And Arrian?"

Sherlock politely placed his chin on his fist and watched her with an attentive expression. He was surprised at how warmly and _easily_ she seemed to accept him; perhaps it was that he came as John's friend, and that _John_ was completely at ease around him, but as she spoke of her loneliness and the sweetness of her eldest child her eyes flickered to Sherlock every now and again and she smiled warmly. When she started in on how worried she had been for John's safety – and his sanity, she added with a slightly stern look – the gladiator reached out for Sherlock's hand again.

Surprised, Sherlock took it and let their joined hands rest on the tabletop. Claudia's eyes caught on them, but to Sherlock's further surprise, she merely smiled further and said nothing. "…But, seeing you now I will not worry about that," she finished softly. "I can see that you are happy. I cannot understand why you would choose the life of a gladiator, but I can accept that it seems to be what you want."

"It is," John replied, smiling at Sherlock. "And I am very happy."

Claudia Morstan nodded slowly. "And… you seem to have made a great deal more progress in finding my daughter's attacker than the city lawkeepers, my Lord. Do you often follow these investigations?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but John got there first. "He is _brilliant_ , Claudia," the gladiator said earnestly. Sherlock closed his mouth again, feeling blood rise to his cheeks. "The way that his mind works – he _knows_ things, as though he can read your mind –"

"I only _look_ , John," Sherlock interrupted, not sure he liked the way John was describing him. Mind-reading sounded terribly invasive.

The gladiator smiled, and the warmth and admiration in the expression softened Sherlock's own face. "Well, when you look you _see_ a lot more than anyone else I have ever met – more than _I_ could ever hope to."

"That is because you do not look _properly_ ," Sherlock retorted. He smiled at Claudia. "I occasionally assist the city lawkeepers," he told her. "They share John's inability to see what has been laid in front of them, and I find the puzzle of working it out a welcome change from the drone of politicians."

John chuckled. After a while Sherlock began to relax and the conversation to flow more easily; hours passed without him realising them until John sat up suddenly. "We should leave," he said. "There is training in the morning, it is far later than we intended to be here."

Claudia Morstan stood abruptly. "Forgive me," she said, clearing their empty cups. "It was a great relief to see you so happy, John."

The sky was almost beginning to lighten with the dawn outside; Sherlock felt a momentary stab in his stomach at the thought that he would not be able to spend more of the night with John.

"My Lord," Claudia called as they reached the door. He turned back with a finger to his lips, casting a hurried look around to see whether anyone had heard the whispered title. "Sorry," the widow apologised. "I just wished to say… would you keep him safe for me? I consider him my son, and the thought of him in a gladiator's arena…" she shivered, as though suddenly cold.

Sherlock smiled as reassuringly as he could – the thought of sending John back out into the arena caused a similar reaction in himself. "I do try, Mrs Morstan," he assured her. "Being in the arena makes him feel alive. I recognise the feeling, loath as I am to continue allowing him to risk his life. If I could find a way to give him both… but I am afraid no such option exists."

Unexpectedly, Claudia Morstan stepped forwards and yanked him into a hug. After a moment of shock, Sherlock put his arms around her and returned it. "Juno bless you, my Lord," she said quietly. "You are such a good man. I rejoiced when your brother gave up the Empire, I knew that you would lead us to not only greatness but _goodness_."

Terrifically awkward, Sherlock patted her on the back and attempted to disengage the hug. "I am not sure where you get your conviction, Mrs Morstan," he told her softly, "but I have not done much to live up to your predictions."

"Goodness begins in small places," she said vehemently. "And you are good to us, the small people."

Sherlock smiled. "Thank you," he said earnestly. "And thank you for answering my questions. I believe we are a great deal closer to discovering the reason for Mary's death."

"Juno bless you," was all she would say.

John took his hand when Sherlock caught up with him at the corner of the street; Sherlock pressed a kiss to his temple. "She has so much faith in me," he confided. "It scares me. She is so certain that I will do good for the Empire."

The gladiator chuckled. "So am I," he said firmly. "So many of us in the city are. And not just for the Empire, but for the _people_. Because you are kinder than your father, and you care about us."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "I have never met anyone who held that assumption before," he said. People in the court treated him with a grudging respect, but never _liking_. But then, he supposed, he didn't _like_ any of them either. They were all stupid and boring and yet they still treated him as though _he_ was the stupid one.

"The people love you," John maintained.

Sherlock shrugged, conceding the point: it would seem that they _did_ , even if he hadn't done anything to deserve it. "I do not understand _why_. What is different about the way I rule than the way Mycroft would? The whole thing is bread and circuses."

For a moment, the older man didn't answer. Then he started talking, his voice lower than usual, slow and steady. "Do you remember… there was a Saturnalia parade so many years ago, when Mycroft was still in line for the Empire. There was a woman who ran into the middle of your procession and tried to tug your father off his horse. Your father just ignored her; Mycroft tried to peel her away from him, but she was… and then you, little sixteen year-old you asked her what was wrong." Sherlock did remember: Mycroft had looked at him with such fury when he'd dismounted and approached the woman. As soon as he asked her why she was crying she'd let go of the horse and turned to him instead. "She told you her husband had gone missing and without his wage she and her daughter were going to starve. So you looked at her and did that thing you did to me, where you figured everything out by her clothes and posture and things. You told her that her husband was in debtor's prison."

John looked up at him, and Sherlock thought on his first look that the gladiator was crying; a second look revealed that his eyes were simply bright with some strong emotion. "You took the brooch off your toga and gave it to her, telling her not to accept less than she needed to repay the debt, free her husband and survive for the next few years for it. _That_ is when we fell in love with you. Mycroft was… diplomatic, and I am certain he would have been a good Emperor. But you… you are passionate, and energetic, and you _care_."

Sherlock swallowed. "Her little girl was crying."

A smile tugged at the corner of John's mouth as he nodded. "It was Mary," he said quietly. "That little girl was Mary."

" _Mary_?" Sherlock repeated, staring at John. "So… the woman, that was Claudia?"

John nodded, smiling at the no doubt baffled expression on Sherlock's face. He had got the impression as they had spoken that he had seen Claudia before, but he never would have connected her with the broken woman he had seen on the street more than fifteen years ago. "And _that_ is why I have always had the utmost respect and admiration for you," John finished, taking his hand again. "Without you, I would not have had even the time that I did with Mary."

Sherlock smiled softly and squeezed John's hand in his. He remembered the panic he had felt as a teenager on that street, watching the little redhead girl dressed in rags screaming at her mother and knowing that neither his father nor Mycroft would do anything to help them.

"Hang on," Sherlock said suddenly, stopping in the middle of the street. "Why was he _in_ debtor's prison?"

John pulled up short beside him, looking bewildered. "He… liked the dice. I do not think he realised quite how much he was losing until they imprisoned him, but once he discovered that his family knew, he paid his debt in service in the military."

Sherlock looked at him intently. "So what happened to the brooch?" he asked.

"I… Claudia sold it," John answered, still looking as though the point of the conversation had escaped him. "Once the merchant knew it was yours, he paid well for it. There was a wooden safe-box in the living room of their house where she kept the sestertii."

Sherlock had to work to keep himself from crowing with delight. "So where is it now?" he asked.

John gaped, evidently thinking back and trying to recall seeing the box in the living room. "I… am not sure," he said finally. "Perhaps she gave it to Arrian? She must have known she would not use it, and now with Mary…"

"But if that were the case, she would have made an effort to get some of it to you," Sherlock persisted. "Legal family or not, she considers you her son." He gave it a moment to let the idea sink in, then voiced his own suggestion. "What if someone stole it?" he asked.

The gladiator looked horrified. "Why… she would have told me," he defended in an almost indignant tone.

Sherlock shook his head. "You were with me – she would not have wanted me to know that she had allowed my gift to be taken from her. If it only happened recently – is it possible she did not notice it, or would not mention it until after Mary's death?"

John opened his mouth, a negation visible on his lips, before Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him and he considered it, something akin to horror dawning on his face. "Perhaps," he admitted. "Claudia was always proud, and if she did not need the money to survive…"

Sherlock clapped his hands. "Brilliant!" he said, keeping his voice to a stage-whisper. "That could explain it. You said Mark Morstan was a gambler. He had got himself into trouble before – what if it happened again? He somehow got into trouble with his friends – or with someone else, and promised the other three equal shares in that box of sestertii to get him out of it?"

The dimachaerus was looking at him with his mouth open; it took a moment for Sherlock to realise that the expression was not awe, but incredulous shock of a more negative kind. " _Brilliant_?" he repeated, his voice low. "Someone has stolen Claudia's savings, the money she was probably depending on to live, and your response is _brilliant?_ "

At the expression on John's face, Sherlock stopped smiling. He'd seen that expression on Mycroft's face before, and he didn't like it. "It can't possibly be unrelated," he said uncertainly. "It gives us another clue, we are one step closer to discovering why Mary died, is that not good?" The gladiator's eyebrows pinched closer together, but otherwise he did not react. Sherlock floundered. "Look, the most likely explanation, _given_ that the box is missing, is that Morstan promised it to his friends and then died before he could deliver. One of the friends – almost definitely Small – killed Mary while attempting to steal the box, only to find that Sholto had already stolen it, so he tracked Sholto down and killed him, too. That means that Small has the box, so when we find him we can recover it and give it back to Claudia. So no actual _harm_ done, but it makes the conclusion more obvious. Thus, _brilliant_."

John stared at him for a few moments. Then he shook his head. "That's… _Jupiter_ ," he cursed quietly. "Your mind works so _fast_. Most people would linger for a moment on pity for Claudia before jumping straight into that chain of reasoning."

Sherlock made a face. "Dull," he pronounced.

It was the wrong thing to say: John's face, which had just begun to relax, tightened again. "Right," he said, keeping his eyes straight ahead and beginning to walk again.

"John," Sherlock pleaded, hurrying after him and touching his arm, trying to get him to turn around. "I did not mean –"

"I should go," John said dully. "It is almost dawn."

He would not look at Sherlock, who was trying desperately to think of words that would negate the previous ones. He did not mean that compassion or pity themselves were dull, simply that he could not allow them to stop him from thinking through the causes and consequences of ill fortune to reach the correct conclusion. "John," he tried again. The gladiator turned to face him, finally, but his expression was hard. "Do I… could you… would you kiss me goodnight?" he settled eventually.

John's face softened minutely, and he leaned forwards to place a gentle kiss on Sherlock's lips. Sherlock deepened it, trying to apologise with lips and tongue where he couldn't quite form them into the right words, but John was not fully participating and it was an empty kiss from which he emerged disappointed.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," the dimachaerus said gently when they broke apart, and then he turned and almost fled from his sight.

Sherlock stared at the corner where he had disappeared for a moment, before retiring to his bedchamber and pulling the sheets over his head to block out the rise of the sun.


	11. Chapter 11

John did not speak to the Emperor for three days.

A part of this was pride, was not wanting to be the first to back down after their disagreement, because Sherlock had been the one to hurt him and therefore Sherlock should be the one to break the silence. Most of it, though, was shame at the way he had reacted. It had been one simple _faux pas_ on the Emperor's behalf, one statement – one _word_ even, that showed how long the tall beauty had spent not loving or being loved, and John had bitten his head off about it.

He felt terrifically guilty and ashamed at his own reaction, and this made it difficult somehow to go to Sherlock and apologise, not that he would get anywhere near the Emperor without prior permission anyway.

There was something about Sherlock that contradicted his age, a naiveté that shone through his grey-green eyes that squeezed at John's heart. There were so many things he did not know, brilliant though John believed his mind to be. Things that every child in the city was taught or simply learned themselves through trial and error Sherlock did not seem to know; astrology, mythology, _courtesy_. And the thing that had torn at his heart the most when Sherlock had said _I love you_ so softly into his ear had been the note of wonder, as though this were something he had _never_ expected to feel. Because this was how John himself felt, but he had had it once already, he was an old and broken man with no social status. Surely the Emperor, who could have anyone he wanted and still so young and beautiful, had expected one day to find someone to love and to love him?

And that, _that_ , was what scared John the most, was possibly the biggest reason he had made no attempt to apologise. Because as improbable as the feeling was, John _did_ love Sherlock. He didn't understand it; he had barely known the Emperor for two weeks and he would already give anything to keep him happy even if he were not the ruler of the Roman Empire. He could not explain it by any way other than that it was _Sherlock Holmes_ , and he was a wonder and a prodigy and John was completely in awe of him, and it was _terrifying._

Lestrade clapped him firmly on the shoulder, shaking him out of his increasingly panicky thoughts. "Head in the game, John?" he asked brightly, though with the undercurrent of concern that John had come to love about the lanista. He liked to pretend he was harsh and immoveable, but his eyes betrayed the concern he held for each and every one of his gladiators.

"Always," John replied, mentally closing the door on the turmoil of his feelings for Sherlock. The Emperor would be out there today, of course. He never missed a bout, surely he would not stop today – unless John had hurt him so badly that he would not want to face him? _Why_ had he overreacted like that?

The lanista smiled at the lie. John shook his head. He _knew_ why he had overreacted, but that did not justify it. And if he did not concentrate on the upcoming fight, he was going to get hurt. "I am fine," he assured the older warrior, more truthfully this time. Lestrade smiled.

Someone bumped into him as they began to file out of the cages into the arena. John looked around to see who it was, but they had mixed in with the swim of the other gladiators. He shrugged to himself as he stepped into the line of gladiators now facing the stands.

And there was Sherlock, sitting on the platform reserved for the Emperor and his party. John looked up at him, his swords held carefully point-downwards in the traditional mark of respect, and Sherlock smiled hesitantly at him, as though afraid John would not meet his eyes.

John grinned up at him instead, trying to convey his apologies through his eyes alone. After he had won this fight – and he _would_ win it, he was easily the best gladiator in the arena – he would apologise properly and everything would be all right. He bowed, the customary gesture, and then they took their positions to begin the fight.

He liked most of the gladiators in Lestrade's arena; they were skilled fighters and they appreciated fighting with someone whose skill rivalled their own – for the joy of fighting, not for that of killing. Nevertheless, he jumped at the first man who attempted to attack him with a challenging gleam in his eyes; parried a few blows before executing a quick flick of his wrist and disarming the gladiator, pointing the sword in his left hand at the man's throat while keeping his right hand ready in case someone attempted to attack him before the gladiator could signal surrender.

In fact, his next attacker waited until he had let the other man up to gather his weapons and leave the arena before he went straight for John's stomach.

John barely had time to jump backwards and avoid the blow; his new attacker did not allow him to recover himself before pressing forwards, driving a punishing attack that was steadily forcing John backwards. He had never seen the man before; a wiry, deceptively strong Black slave whirling a sort of trident and a small, round shield. John paused to consider the fact. This was a routine fighting exercise among the gladiators of the Emperor's court. There should not have been anyone present that John did not recognise.

The tiniest flash of panic surged through his veins, but the pause was enough; the slave jabbed his trident into the thick leather of John's gloves, scraping the skin underneath before yanking it free again.

The trident gave his opponent a much longer reach than John himself could achieve, and so landing blows on the slave was enormously difficult; John was thankful he was not burdened with a heavy shield as he darted forwards, attempting slashing cuts at the slave's legs.

Sensing the trouble that John was in, the others started to circle; someone made a half-hearted stab at the tendons behind his knees, and he spun to defend himself against the blow and earned a skilful jab in the ribs with the trident, drawing blood.

After a few minutes of this – turning around as quickly as he could while still making sure he had eyes on everyone making calculated dives towards him – he had eliminated a few of his attackers and the others had begun to attack each other as well as him, taking advantage of their distraction and proximity to flick the weapons out of each other's hands.

Then someone managed to lock John's left hand in a tight parry, pushing a short blade away from his face with his own sword, straining to keep a hold on it. So distracted, John could mount only half a defence when he felt the point of the trident sidle into his grip on the sword in his right hand, and then he was defenceless.

A sharp jerk from the person occupying his left hand wrenched his other sword free; assuming him now defeated, the others backed off and allowed the Black slave to claim the victory.

John stared at the other man. He had been taken by surprise, but that did not mean that his loss was excusable, and the hot and ugly feeling of disappointment at himself bubbled up at his stomach. The trident rose and John fought the urge to close his eyes, expecting it to land – likely harder than necessary, judging by the previous moves from the slave – at his throat in the typical demand for surrender.

Instead, the trident slashed savagely towards his stomach in a blow clearly intended to sever his internal organs and kill him.

In a fit of desperation, John jerked his body to the side; the blades of the trident gouged long stripes of blood and muscle through his thigh instead as he dived into a sort of roll to avoid the back-swing of the weapon, stumbling as he attempted to climb back to his feet. His thigh screamed in agony as he cast about desperately for a sword; the Black slave appeared to be snarling in anger, his thick lips curled up over his yellow teeth, eyes dark with fury. John ducked the next swipe, narrowly avoided the slash to his neck from the trident with a backwards lunge and settled a few feet away from his opponent, breathing heavily and keeping his eyes on the slave.

Sherlock had stood up; he could see the figure in his peripheral vision, his dark curls bobbing as he shouted furiously at someone John couldn't see. _Probably Lestrade_ , he thought distantly. _Asking how this person came to be in the arena._ What John wanted to know was _why_ , but he couldn't spare the thought for it because the slave was coming after him again and he _still didn't have a weapon._

He tried to step back, but the slashed thigh protested and he almost fell; off balance, he registered that the slave was upon him, trident outstretched, and jerked his head backwards to avoid another sweeping slash at his neck.

Then he tottered on his bad leg, and fell over.

The slave stepped between his legs, trident raised like a hunter poised to spear a fish, savage triumph gleaming black in his eyes. John turned his head to look up at the stands – at _Sherlock_ , who had stopped screaming at Lestrade in favour of watching them, a hand over his mouth, his grey-green eyes wide with fear.

_He thinks I'm going to die_ , John realised. He looked up at the slave, still poised and grinning. _When did I stop wanting to?_

There was a vicious-sounding _clonk_ , and then John rolled easily out of the way as the slave crumpled forwards, the trident falling out of his hands as he lost consciousness.

One of the other gladiators, a slim dark-haired man that John enjoyed sparring with, shrugged the shield arm he had just used to knock out the slave and held out the other to help John up, grinning. "Who in _Bacchus'_ name was that?" he asked, sounding angry.

John looked down at the unconscious barbarian. "I have no idea," he replied. "Thanks."

The gladiator clapped him on the shoulder. "Can you walk?" he asked.

"I am all right," John replied. He collected his two swords from the other side of the arena and then limped back towards the cages. "Good luck," he called back to the man who had helped him as the sounds of the fight resumed behind him.

He spared a moment to wonder about the Emperor's arena; the nobles around the stands had all looked shocked and outraged at the slave's misstep. In the Circus Maximus warriors fought to kill no matter how defeated and broken their opponent became, but if the slave had been trained even a little in the etiquette of the court he would have recognised John's surrender and remembered that the aim of these fights was a display of skill only.

It was a breach of the trust that surrounded the arena, and strange as that trust seemed to someone newly introduced to it, the breach had startled everyone. John supposed he ought not to feel so bad about being caught so thoroughly by surprise.

His thigh twinged again; he propped his leg on the seat of a chair as he entered the cage under the arena stands to examine the wound. It did not look as though it had hit anything important, although it would probably require some form of stitching to force the flesh to knit together again. John sighed and put his leg down. He wanted comfort, wanted someone to tell him that he performed well and quiet the fury bubbling in his stomach – he wanted _Sherlock_ , wanted to forgive and be forgiven.

He waited there for a moment or so, and then Sherlock was there, running into him like a falling tree, wrapping him in too many limbs and holding him so tightly he thought he might snap.

"I am sorry," he was saying, the words half-lost in the skin of John's neck.

John winced as Sherlock's knee bumped the gash on his thigh. "Please do not be sorry," he tried to say, but the Emperor was already letting him go, bending down to examine the thigh with an intent expression, his unfathomable eyes flicking worriedly up to John's face.

"How bad is it?" he asked, a frantic edge to his deep voice. He shifted the edge of John's cloth out of the way to get a closer look at the wound; his fingers brushed the tender, open skin and John winced, his knee struggling to buckle. Sherlock's movements became yet more desperate. "John, please tell me!"

He tried to gently remove the long, probing fingers from his leg, but the Emperor only clutched harder until John had to bark out his name quite sharply to get his attention. "Sherlock!" he cried. "It is quite superficial – merely a flesh wound."

Sherlock seemed to calm down slightly, though he still insisted on probing it carefully with his fingers to ascertain how deep the gash was. "You are right," he said finally. He stayed on his knees, staring up at John with those incredible eyes, his chin resting tantalisingly in the softness of John's abdomen. John swallowed. "John, what I said that night, I did not mean it the way it sounded," the Emperor said slowly.

John crouched to the same level – ignoring the screaming pain in his leg – and placed a finger over his lips. "I know," he said quietly. "And I am sorry for the way I reacted. I do know that you care, and it means a lot to me."

The Emperor whimpered slightly and folded him into his long arms, clutching him close and making his leg scream in pain. "Ouch," he said quietly into Sherlock's neck, and the taller man let go immediately. John snorted and shifted so he was almost sitting in the Emperor's lap, his injured leg stretched out in front of him and one hand resting on Sherlock's chest as the younger man wrapped protective arms around him and placed comforting kisses over his neck. "Thank you."

After a moment, Sherlock slid him off and then helped him to stand; John looked around to see Lestrade striding towards them, looking livid. "Ran off," the lanista growled when he got close enough. "Never seen the barbarian before. _Mars_ knows how he got into the cages without one of the fighters noticing he was not supposed to be there. I have people searching, my Lord, but I am not sure it is likely they will find him."

"I would not think so," Sherlock replied.

John made a noise of frustration. "I do not understand _why_ ," he said. Lestrade shook his head to say that he did not understand it either, but Sherlock gave him a _don't be stupid_ look. John frowned at him. "Why would someone attempt to murder me?"

The Emperor rolled his eyes. "Why would someone attempt to murder your wife, or your old military friend? We must be on the right track in our investigations. Had I not been so fearful for your life, I would be delighted."

It was better than an outright _brilliant_ , but John still flinched at his phrasing. Sherlock didn't appear to notice, busy as he was arranging his face in a thinking expression. "Lestrade," he said finally, his deep voice absent and slow. "Contact the city lawkeepers. Have _someone_ watch the residence of Claudia Morstan, and her son Arrian. If John is in danger, it is likely they will be."

"And what about you?" John asked, worry stroking an icy finger down his back. "Will _you_ not also be in danger?"

Sherlock actually rolled his eyes. "I hardly think Jonathan Small and whatever accomplices he has managed to gain himself will dare an attempt to penetrate _my_ protection," he said. "And even if they did, they would not get near me. I do not suppose, Lestrade, that your attempts to find Small have come to anything?"

Lestrade shrugged in acquiescence, looking dejected. John smiled softly. Sherlock nodded. "I did not expect so," he said, a tiny note of comfort in his voice. "Take John to have that wound checked," he continued, not letting go of John's hand. "Tomorrow evening we will revisit Bartholomew Sholto's house. We will require Cerberus."

"Cerberus?" John repeated questioningly, accepting the kiss Sherlock planted on his temple.

The Emperor's eyes gleamed. "Yes, I think so," he said.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We now have a tumblr! Follow us at mr-csi.tumblr.com. 
> 
> Hearty apologies for the continued lack of smut. Next chapter our sole focus will be on rectifying this. XD

Cerberus was a huge black hound with drooping ears and huge red eyes. He barked dully at Sherlock, pushing his wet nose and gaping jowls into his hand. Sherlock patted him half-heartedly, winding the rope that bound him tightly around his hand.

John looked slightly nervously at the hound as it regarded him with baleful eyes. "This is Cerberus?" he asked slowly.

Sherlock smiled at him. "We shall see when we get to Sholto's house whether he will be necessary," he replied. "If not, Quintus here will remove him for us."

The sallow-faced lawkeeper smiled humourlessly at John. Sherlock made an impatient gesture for the gathering to follow him; when he had said that _they_ would have to revisit the house of Bartholomew Sholto, he had meant him and John together, just the two of them. He didn't need Lestrade or his dog-trainer to accompany them and he certainly didn't _want_ them around. It had been _days_ since he and John had spent time together, and Sherlock could almost feel the individual cells in his body straining towards the shorter man. He only wanted to stand for a while with John in his arms, that snub nose pressed against his collarbone; he'd dreamt of the way the gladiator had felt against his chest, safe and warm, somehow protective and protected at the same time.

John walked close to him nonetheless as Lestrade navigated them through the street; Sherlock refrained from pointing out to the lanista that they had been to Sholto's house before when the dimachaerus slipped his hand gently into Sherlock's and presented him with a familiar tight-lipped smile.

The house was lit much like it had been all those nights ago when they had traced the spots of blood – blood, Sherlock supposed upon reflection, that may easily have been Sholto's and _not_ Mary's – to the waste heap outside. Sherlock watched with some amusement as Lestrade leaped forward and delivered a solid kick to the door, grinning in delight as it crashed open before him. Lestrade was evidently enjoying himself; Sherlock smiled at him, remembering the early days of his apparently unhealthy interest in the outside world, when his father had used to send the young gladiator Sherlock had taken such a shine to out into the city with him like a bodyguard.

Inside, the house was beginning to smell of disuse; Sherlock noted a mouse scrambling frantically across the floor when Lestrade bent to light the candles on the dresser with his torch. Cerberus saw the mouse an instant after Sherlock did; with a deep _whuff_ the hound bounded after it, gracelessly shoving his nose at the hole in the wall it capered into.

John squeezed his hand once for reassurance before he dropped it; Sherlock smiled briefly at his lover and crossed back to the door. It was usually obvious when houses had been broken into, but besides the damage Lestrade had done when he had mercilessly kicked it in, the door bore no signs of forced entry. Sherlock frowned. "Interesting," he muttered.

"What?"

The gladiator was instantly by his side once more, peering at the doorframe as though attempting to ascertain Sherlock's train of thought. He smiled fondly. "The door had not been forced before tonight," he explained carefully. "Therefore, either Sholto was still on friendly terms with the killer and invited him in freely – which would negate our earlier theory of Sholto having stolen the sestertii – or they did not come in through the door."

Lestrade slipped past them to fix his torch to a bracket outside the door. "If they did not come in through the door, then how did they get here?"

Sherlock studied the small room; it had no windows. "I am not sure," he said slowly. After a moment of scanning the room for alternative points of entry, Cerberus seemed to give up on the elusive mouse and trotted off through the rest of the house, snuffling happily. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Perhaps if they – oh!"

He bent quickly to an animal skin adorning the floor underneath a low table. "Lestrade," he called. "What would you say made these marks?" He gestured to a series of scuff marks on the pelt – some exotic animal most likely killed abroad in his time in the military, Sherlock dismissed. "A staff, or spear, perhaps?"

"It is too wide for anything issued by the military," John chipped in, peering down at the marks.

Lestrade hummed agreement. "More likely some sort of crutch," he said, his knees cracking as he stood.

Sherlock lifted his head to meet John's eyes, gleaming with blue-grey excitement. "A crutch," he repeated. "The intruder had one leg."

For a moment they stared at one another, the triumph and incendiary excitement spinning between them. Then Lestrade cleared his throat roughly. "One leg, my Lord?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Had this been him and John alone, there would perhaps have been an elated kiss before bouncing back into the investigation. But Lestrade had no clue what was so important about a one-legged intruder and he was looking at them warily, as though afraid Sherlock would lunge across the low table to tear off John's cloak and toga and take him right in front of them. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment as his every sense gladly joined in the imagination of such a moment.

He shook his head slightly to dispel the image. "Um, the man John and I had begun to suspect had his leg severed in the battle of Ctesiphon," he explained clumsily. "The evidence mounts against Jonathan Small…"

John frowned. "But you said he did not come in through the door," he said slowly. "With one leg, Small cannot have been capable of getting in another way, can he?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the scuffs on the animal skin. "Perhaps we –"

A sharp bark from the adjacent room cut him off; Sherlock cast a quick glance at John before bounding up towards the sound.

Once through the door it was fairly obvious what had set Cerberus off; there was a faint coppery tang in the heavy air, the unmistakeable scent of old blood.

John sniffed faintly. "So he was killed in this room?" he guessed.

Sherlock shook his head minutely, watching the huge hound snuffling at something underneath the room's shuttered window. "Lestrade," he directed at the lanista behind him. "Fetch the candle from the other room, would you?"

The grey-haired warrior assented with a murmured _of course, my Lord_. Sherlock crossed to the window and threw the shutters open. "Small cannot have come through here," he muttered. "But perhaps…"

There was a dark smudge on the deep window-ledge, barely visible in the moonlight; Sherlock traced his fingertips over it. The colour was indiscernible in the half-light, but when he bent and sniffed at it, the rich smell confirmed his suspicions. "Blood," he said aloud.

Lestrade pressed the candle into his hands and yanked at the rope around Cerberus' neck so that Sherlock could bend the candle to the patch of floor the hound had been licking and sniffing at and let out a triumphant noise. "John."

There was more blood on the floor, a more substantial smear in which the clear shape of a footprint could be made out. John knelt beside him and whistled lowly at it.

"What might we tell about the intruder from this print, John?" he asked briskly, levelling an attentive stare at the dimachaerus.

John frowned mightily. "He had injured his foot?" he began, flashing a wry grin in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "All right," he continued. "It is a big footprint, so… a large man? Flat-footed, I would say."

Sherlock nodded agreement. "Extremely so. And wide-footed, as well – look at the placement of the toes, spread much further apart than my own." To illustrate, he placed his sandal-clad foot beside the print and wriggled his toes. "This is the foot of a barbarian," he concluded.

John's eyes widened. "The black fighter from the arena," he breathed.

"So now we know how a one-legged man could commit such brutal murder," Sherlock summarised, standing up again. "Perhaps he met his acquaintance on a tour with the military and bartered a favour with him – judging by the pattern of Small's crutch-prints in the other room, he was a paid confederate, not a slave coerced into helping him. Most likely Small promised him a share of Mary's sestertii."

"Hang on," Lestrade interjected, shuffling in confusion from one foot to the other. "What pattern of Small's crutch-prints?"

Sherlock tuttted in irritation. "There are many clustered very close together," he explained impatiently. "Indicating that he was either fidgeting or pacing. In a man with only one leg, this must surely be a sign of the most extreme agitation. It cannot have been necessary for Sholto to die – surely threatening him would have been sufficient once the cause of Mary's death had been explained to him. Small and Sholto were close friends. Perhaps the barbarian confederate killed him without Small's instruction."

When he looked up, John was staring at him open-mouthed. "You are incredible," he said softly.

A smile spread itself across Sherlock's face even as he shrugged away the compliment. "It is likely that even following the traces of blood from where the barbarian must have injured his foot we will only find ourselves at the alley where Sholto's body was found before Cerberus confuses the scent," he lamented. "But it is our best avenue of investigation, so… Quintus?"

The dog-trainer peered with little interest around the doorframe; Sherlock wished yet again that the stern stranger were not necessary to his investigation. "Can Cerberus trace these bloody footprints?" he asked nonetheless.

Quintus frowned at him. "It is likely they will fade before long as sand from the streets clogged the wound, my Lord," he explained. "But for a way, at least, he should be able to lead you." He took the rope from Lestrade and fondled Cerberus' drooping black ears, the stern exterior flickering minutely into fondness. "Cerberus," he murmured to the hulking animal, and pointed firmly at the first bloody print. "Seek."

The hound _whuffed_ agreement again, bending his great head to the ground and beginning to methodically waggle it from side to side, searching for another source of the scent. Eventually – causing a hurried step back from John – he placed his front paws on the window-ledge and barked once into the night.

Once they had picked up the scent again from outside the house it was, as Sherlock had predicted, a fairly straight road through the city until the hound finally stopped and sat down on its hind legs, perplexed, two streets away from the alley where Sholto's body was found. Lestrade sighed in frustration. Sherlock looked at him sharply.

"I no longer require assistance," he said, touching the lanista on the arm. "You need rest, Lestrade."

The silver-haired man sighed. "Yes, my Lord," he replied quietly, turning away.

Sherlock looked up at the dog-trainer. "And you, Quintus. Thank you for your help."

Nodding, the two men and the dog padded quietly out of the alleyway. Sherlock looked down at John, who was looking up at him already, his face split into his delightfully endearing smile. "I thought we would never be alone," he said quietly, reaching a hand up. Sherlock leaned into the warm touch as John's calloused fingers caressed his face.

Suddenly they were kissing, though Sherlock could not quite recall moving towards it; John's lips were warm against his, his tongue pleasant. He grasped the gladiator's waist and yanked him flush against his body, revelling in the familiar weight of him, the way he fit so neatly into Sherlock's curves and angles.

"I missed you," John murmured against his lips.

Sherlock smiled and kissed him again. "I missed _you_."

After another, more languid kiss, John pulled away and stared down the alley at the patch of sand that had been re-swept to erase the signs of Sholto's blood, at the gaudy _IV_ still staring down at them from the wall. "What do we do now?"

He frowned. "We need further help," he said, looking down at John. "Help that for various reasons I would prefer Lestrade and Quintus not to know about."

Slowly, he let go of John to put two fingers to his lips and whistle, high and piercing, three long, shrill notes.

It took a while; after a few moments had passed Sherlock repeated the call, and it was _then_ that they started to come. The first was a grubby boy of around ten strolling nonchalantly around the corner that they themselves had started down, his thumbs hooked in the grubby folds of the filthy, ratty loincloth wrapped tightly around his waist. Following him was a boy and a girl, the blond of their hair mainly disguised by the dirt clinging to their completely naked bodies.

John drew a sharp breath in as more children started to appear, squeezing themselves from the very fabric of the streets, all in varying stages of extreme poverty. "Where are their parents? Should they not be asleep?"

Sherlock levelled a look at the gladiator. "They have no parents, John. This is what happens to orphaned children on the streets of Rome. This is why I stopped to listen to Claudia all those years ago – because I had _been_ out here and _seen_ children like these, and I could not stand by and abandon another child to the same fate."

He surveyed the children in front of him; two of them he had not seen before, and these he smiled at reassuringly. "And – _assemble!_ " he called to them. With much chatter among the new children, the group slowly fell into a line facing him. Sherlock pulled his arms behind his back and watched them, ostensibly critical. "This," he said slowly, "is Watson. He served in the military at the battle for Ctesiphon. You will address him as 'sir'. Is that understood?"

The children eyed John warily, but eventually chorused, _yes, your Excellency_ at him. He nodded sharply. "Now. Do you want to be helpful? There will be two sestertii in it for each of you."

Another chorus of _yes, your Excellency._ Sherlock nodded again. "We are looking for two men. One of them is a big black-skinned man with an injured foot – he may be walking with a limp. The other is slightly more distinctive – he only has one leg and he walks using a thick wooden crutch. These two men are very dangerous and you are _not_ to approach them, do you understand? We only wish to know where we might find them. If you see them, go to Mrs Hudson outside the court, is that understood?"

_Yes, your Excellency._

Sherlock looked proudly at the assembled orphans. "These children, my dear Watson, keep better watch than all of Rome's lawkeepers put together."

John smiled weakly in response to the gap-toothed, trusting beams the children offered him. "I am sure," he replied quietly.

One of the older children stuck a hand clumsily in the air. "Your Excellency, sir? I seen them. Saw them yesterday. Down the docks, sir."

"I _have_ seen them, Wiggins," Sherlock corrected. "Do you remember what they were doing at the docks?"

The boy shrugged sullenly. "Me an' Tiger were down there yesserday begging, sir. I 'member seeing them down by the boat building. Jus' hanging round, sir."

Sherlock nodded. "Thank you, Wiggins." He drew a small pouch from the folds of his cloak. "I can trust you to distribute this, can I not?" he asked the boy, who nodded sullenly. "Do any of you need the attentions of a physician?"

"Horatia does, your Excellency. She done something to her leg. Lots of blood at first, now i'ss just all red and big," one of the girls piped up. Sherlock frowned.

"I will send someone out to have a look at her," he promised. "Horatia is in the group by the cemetery, correct?" The girl muttered another _yes, your Excellency_. Sherlock nodded. "Thank you. Keep an eye out for those men – someone at the docks at all times, is that understood? And make sure you spend those sestertii on food."

John turned to him as the children filtered away, some hanging around to present him with minor scrapes, complaints, or trinkets they had made for him and watched as he tore strips from the bottom of his toga to bandage a scratch on a girl's arm and kissed her on the forehead once he was done. "Look at you," he said softly once they were gone. "You act as though you have no heart, and yet you are possibly the best human being that I have ever met. You _cannot_ understand how much your interventions will mean to these children."

Sherlock took his hand without speaking, his heart hammering in his throat as he watched the twins scampering into a gap between two buildings. "People ignored me as a child," he remarked quietly. "Mycroft was the heir to the throne, so he was the one that people paid attention to. Then there was the odd person – Lestrade, for example – who were kind to me. I _do_ understand what it means to have someone in a life where you are used to having no-one."

They stood together in the dark for a while, hand in hand. Then Sherlock sighed. "Do you want to look at the docks tonight? It is unlikely that we will find anything."

John shook his head. "No," he said softly. "My leg has not yet fully recovered from the fight – I think I should get some sleep. Lestrade will expect me to train properly tomorrow." Sherlock nodded; he did not particularly want to walk down to the docks to snoop around in the dark – without the torch that Lestrade had taken with them – for signs that Small and his accomplice were still there. So with an abrupt sigh, the two of them started off back towards the court, John leaning on Sherlock slightly as his leg began to complain. Sherlock felt a twinge of guilt for dragging him to the alley in the first place.

They were barely two streets away from the court when someone's gruff shout made them stop and turn, dropping each other's hands.

"Oh," the man who had called out grunted to his companion. "It is only some rich pig and his whore."

Sherlock's fists clenched at the slight. "Excuse me?" he asked hotly, even as John's hand closed around his upper arm, pleading him to leave it.

The men advanced until they were level with them. The taller of the two – his eyes of a height with Sherlock's, his shoulders far broader – stared him down as best he could through the hood of Sherlock's cloak. "You stay out of this, pretty-boy," he growled. "The grown-ups are talking."

John made a faint noise as they rounded on him; they had assumed, most likely from the stronger, bolder set of John's shoulders and the masculine curve of his jaw that _he_ was the 'dominant' partner and Sherlock must be lower-status. Sherlock would have smiled had he not been so worried by the way the stocky gladiator had set his feet as though preparing for a fight. "Leave him alone," John snarled.

Sherlock reached out and caught the arm of the first man to attempt a punch. "John, you cannot –"

"You shut up, _puer_!"

He barely had time to register the arm being yanked out of his grip before the man's next punch hit him squarely in the face.

He managed to turn his head slightly so that the punch struck his cheek and not his nose, but the force of it still snapped his head back and pain lanced through his eye as the man's knuckle caught the corner of the socket. Sherlock staggered backwards, only realising when he had managed to stay upright that the force of the blow had knocked his hood away from his face and the man was staring at him, cradling his knuckles and looking utterly horrified. "Your Excellency," he stuttered helplessly.

Sherlock touched the spot where he had been hit gingerly and looked daggers at his assailant. "Mention this to no-one and you may be spared the Circus," he threatened softly.

The man's companion was pulling at his toga, and at the uttered threat he relented; without another word, the two of them turned and sprinted off down the alleyway. Instantly, John was crowding up to him, prying his fingers away from his face to squint at it in the dark. "Are you all right?" he asked frantically.

Sherlock nodded after a moment's further evaluation. "He missed everything vital," he confirmed, wincing as John's fingers probed harshly at it. "Leave it, John – you cannot see anything in this light."

The rest of the walk back to the court was a more subdued one; Sherlock's face very quickly began to throb uncomfortably, and by the time they were standing by the back doors it hurt quite considerably. "You should find something cold to put on it to prevent the bruising," John remarked, peering at Sherlock's face in the flickering light from one of the torches by the door.

"It will bruise anyway," Sherlock retorted, wincing as the movement of his jaw made the spot ache. "I will find some sort of salve in the morning. Will I see you tomorrow?"

John smiled and allowed his hand to fall to Sherlock's neck, firm and comforting. "Of course," he assured him, leaning in for a gentle kiss. "I have missed you too much to stay away now." Sherlock recaptured his lips, ignoring the jolts of pain as John's nose bumped his cheek. "How will those children let you know if they see Small?" he asked once they had separated.

Sherlock shrugged. "They will let Mrs Hudson outside the court know, and she will find a way to get it to me."

"Mrs Hudson?"

A smile found its way across Sherlock's face. "An old widow who lives just outside the court. Her husband was not a man I would want anyone to be attached to for any length of time, and I managed to prove that he had murdered his brother and have him thrown to wild animals. Now she helps me to take care of the children when they need it – her daughter works in the court kitchens so she has an excuse to come into the court and find me. The perfect middlewoman." John smiled weakly – the same smile, Sherlock noticed, as he had given when Sherlock had introduced him to the collection of orphans. "She would treat me as though I were her own child," he added wistfully. "Far more than my mother ever did."

John's hand on his neck squeezed his shoulder briefly before falling. "It sounds as though everyone who has ever taken the trouble to get to know you is enamoured with you," he observed idly. Sherlock felt his face flush. "And I can see why."

Sherlock shook his hand off mock-irritatedly. "Yes, all right," he dismissed, unable to keep the smile off his face. "You may be slightly biased."

John beamed. "I should hope so," he retorted. "I am glad you finally realise it."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended to get this out to you much sooner, but it was my first time writing anything quite this pointedly smutty. It was by turns the most challenging and the most intensely erotic thing I have ever done, and I now regret the years I spent laughing at erotic fanfiction authors. I'd tip my hat to you all if I hadn't already eaten it as per a previous statement. 
> 
> -Mr CSI

John arrived at the door to Sherlock's bedchamber almost trembling with nervous anticipation. He was not certain that the Emperor had the same intentions for the night as he did; they had simply agreed to meet, not what they would be doing. It was possible – even likely, considering his enthusiasm the previous night – that Sherlock had entirely forgotten that there _was_ another side to their agreement than the investigation. But John did not mind putting the investigation aside for one night now that it felt so keenly as though they were making progress; especially not if he then spent that night showing his gratitude to the man who had made it happen.

At the very least, he wanted to be able to simply spend some time with Sherlock without the pressure of catching anyone's killer.

With this in mind, he raised his hand to knock on the heavy door; at the answering _enter_ , he swung the door open and peered around it.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock was gathering the black cloaks from the trunk in preparation to leave the room with his back presented to the door. John cleared his throat tentatively, unable to stop his eyes raking down the line of the Emperor's toga, interrupted as it was by the lush swell of his backside. As Sherlock straightened and turned around, though, John's breath left him in a worried huff.

"Sherlock," he said softly, stepping forwards helplessly and reaching out a hand. "Your _cheek._ "

The Emperor grimaced and turned his face away from John. "It is nothing – it looks worse than –"

" _Sherlock_ ," John repeated. "Please let me look at it." He took another step until he was right beside the taller man, a hand gently asserting itself against his lower back.

Sherlock slowly turned back. "It has already been examined by a physician, I do not believe that they missed anything you will pick up on, John."

John rolled his eyes. "Humour me," he pleaded. With a _huff_ of irritation, the Emperor sat down on his bed and presented his face, eyes closed trustingly. John paused for a moment at the picture that he made before gently placing his fingers over the bruise, prodding carefully around the discoloured skin. Sherlock hissed a sharp breath through his teeth. "Sorry," John apologised in a whisper, lightening his touch until it was more a caress of skin than an exploration of the bruise. "I do not think any lasting damage has been done," he concluded, though he did not stop the movements of his fingers. "The shape of your cheekbones makes the bruising appear much worse than it is – the bones are so prominent there is nothing to protect them." He chuckled suddenly. "I daresay the man who hit you will be regretting it. I would not be surprised if your cheekbones had broken his hand."

The curly-haired ruler snorted too, the exhalation brushing John's hands. The intimacy of the moment overwhelmed him; of Sherlock's trust, his gentle breaths gusting against the sensitive undersides of John's wrists, the warmth of his skin bending under the pads of his fingers. He stroked the bruise tenderly, his fingers trailing up the curve of Sherlock's eyebrow and over his fluttering eyelid with the tiny strains of bruising, down the sharp, aristocratic line of his cheekbone into the dip of his cheek.

Sherlock exhaled heavily and tilted his face up into the touch; on a whim, John gently replaced his fingers with his damp lips. The Emperor gasped, his hands clutching suddenly at the front of John's toga, not pushing him away or pulling him closer but just holding there, an anchor in the dark behind his eyelids. John let Sherlock feel the smile on his lips as he dragged them _so gently_ up and down his cheek, stopping briefly to plant a kiss on his closed eyelid and trail up one eyebrow.

When he parted his lips against the unforgiving angle of the taller man's cheekbone and lightly swept his tongue against the skin there, Sherlock's hands on his toga pulled him down without opening his eyes and blindly mashed their lips together.

John was perfectly fine with this development; he bent his back to slide his lips into a more favourable position alongside Sherlock's and kissed him hard, trying to convey his need to stay here and just do this to the other man, firmly manipulating his lips and tongue until Sherlock was whimpering, his hands sliding up and down John's chest and scratching enticingly against his nipples.

A moment of this brought the patience that John had hitherto been proud of to an end; the noise in his throat was embarrassingly like a growl as he pushed forwards, Sherlock obediently sliding backwards on the bed and allowing John to climb over him. This feeling in his throat was something he had never felt with Mary, this need to _consume_ Sherlock, to bury himself in him until people could barely tell them apart. He wasn't sure – wasn't ready to _be_ sure – what that was supposed to mean, but he kept a wary eye on the feeling as the Emperor readily submitted to him, his large hands creeping firmly up John's back and holding him close as they kissed hard and slowly.

Positioned as he was between Sherlock's legs, John had the perfect proof of his arousal between his thighs; his lover broke the kiss momentarily to cry out as John ground himself down, testing the waters. In the absence of the lush, heart-shaped lips, John latched onto Sherlock's neck instead, filling his ears with broken pants and almost-groans and reaching a hand between them to –

"John," Sherlock panted, his hands turning to grip at John's shoulders, pulling him away. "John, stop."

Immediately, John detached his mouth from the soft warmth of Sherlock's neck and pushed up onto his elbows over the taller man. "Are you all right?" he asked carefully.

Sherlock's eyes were dark with desire; once he was certain that John was not about to jump on him again he let his arms return to the dip in John's back and rest there comfortably. "John, we cannot," he protested softly. "We must go to the docks tonight."

John pushed his lips outwards in something he would perhaps have called a pout on anyone else's face. " _Must_ we?" he asked.

"John," Sherlock protested, the movement of throwing his head back in frustration accidentally pressing their groins together and making them recoil into one another with a tiny mewling noise from the younger. "The investigation…"

Smirking now, John licked a long stripe up Sherlock's neck. "It can wait one night, Sherlock," he reasoned softly. "Or have the children found something that must be investigated immediately?"

There was a pause before Sherlock replied, his hand stroking hopefully up John's back. "I… suppose not," he said slowly.

John smiled at him. "In that case, I have a very large amount of gratitude I would like to express," he said lazily, leaning down to find Sherlock's lips again. This time the Emperor succumbed to the kiss, clutching at John's back, his dark curls shifting gently against the linen of his bedclothes with the movements of his head.

The kiss was unhurried, their breath mingling along with their tongues. Sherlock tasted of sweetened wine until John's tongue had carefully laved the traces away, replacing them with the heady combination of each of their own tastes. When he began to rock his hips forward with experimental precision, Sherlock made a lazy contented noise and copied the gesture.

After a moment, though, he pulled his mouth away and rolled them over until he could carefully disentangle himself from John and with his usual unfathomable elegance step away from the bed, breathing heavily.

John sat up, worried. "Did I…"

"No," Sherlock cut off quickly. "I wonder… I wish to… would you do something for me?"

The answer came with barely a conscious thought. "Anything."

With a tiny smile, Sherlock bent and rummaged in the trunk at the foot of the ginormous bed. Lazily, John slid out of his toga as he watched the supple curve of his lover's back. Then Sherlock came up, still looking tremendously, adorably nervous, clutching tightly in his hands a length of rope.

"I wish to conduct an assessment of trust," he said, his voice slightly clinical underneath the halting timidity.

John bit his lip. "As you wish," he said quietly, lifting joined hands as though they might help to buoy the sudden sinking of his heart. He had begun to think that perhaps his Emperor _finally_ believed that John _did_ trust him. Apparently, though, he hadn't been quite clear enough in his declarations. And yet – if this was what Sherlock needed to make that step, then John was more than willing to give it to him.

But Sherlock smiled delightedly, placed the rope in John's outstretched hands and climbed back onto the bed, putting his own hands together at the wrist and resting them against the wooden bar that held the bed against the wall. He looked up, his eyes bright and expectant.

John gaped at him, his jaw hanging obviously open until Sherlock's eyebrow made a wry skywards bid. "A-are you certain?" he stuttered helplessly.

The Emperor chuckled languidly. "Of course," he replied easily. "I have thought about it. This way, I must trust that you will take care of me, and you must trust that I would not have you punished for what you might do to me."

He wasn't sure it made perfect sense, but he wasn't sure it mattered; the image had flooded his mind already. Sherlock, stretched out across the bed with his arms above his head, unable to rush or reciprocate while John forced him to understand that he _could_ not leave, that this inexplicable bond between them went both ways.

"As you wish, Sherlock," he repeated. The rope seemed heavy in his hands, and he knew that if he tied it around Sherlock's hands and he pulled at them it would chafe and injure him in ways he would not be able to explain to the court in the morning.

John climbed over Sherlock nonetheless, carefully resting his weight on the narrow hips and reaching out with the rope. His bare knees caught the fabric of Sherlock's toga, lifting it up his hips; frowning at it, John raised himself onto his knees and slid down until his face was level with the base of the toga. "First," he mumbled, his voice slightly hoarse, "we must get rid of _this_ before it is trapped."

Before he touched it, though, he placed a tiny gentle kiss on the inside of Sherlock's knee where the bottom of the fabric fell; the taller man sighed contentedly. John hooked his fingers under the toga and began to lift it slowly up the Emperor's legs, pressing kisses to each new inch of skin as he revealed it. Sherlock's sighs became more pointed until they developed into a single impatient groan of, _"John."_

John chuckled. "Are you certain that you will be able to stand this?" he asked, lifting his head and resting it on the bump of Sherlock's thigh. "Once your hands are tied, if I wish to do this slowly you cannot encourage me to do otherwise."

Sherlock let out an almighty groan, throwing his head back onto the bed with a _flump_. _"Please_ ," he said simply, his hands fluttering uselessly around John's shoulders as he sped up slightly, lifting Sherlock's hips and sliding the fabric up his torso, teasing pressure across his groin and making him groan and rock forwards.

The Emperor sat up and yanked the toga over his head, wincing as the forgotten pin holding it together snagged on a thick strand of his dark curly hair. John couldn't help but watch it as it flew over the side of the bed with an impatient sigh from Sherlock; fabric would be softer, more forgiving around his wrists than rope.

With a twisted grin, John climbed off his lover and untied his own loincloth, keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock's as he wound the fabric away from between his legs. The man's grey-green eyes slid hungrily down John's exposed torso and fixed on his arousal; a pink tongue slipped out and moistened his full lips. John smirked. "See anything you like, Sherlock?" he asked teasingly.

Sherlock's eyes flicked almost guiltily to his face; at seeing the amused look on John's face, his own twisted into a smile. "I certainly see something I _would_ like if it were a little closer," he replied, shifting against the bedclothes. John laughed as he flicked the last of the fabric from his groin and twisted it in his hands; he climbed back on top of Sherlock, letting his bare penis rub firmly against the soft, pale belly. Sherlock whimpered, his fingers sliding up John's thighs to grasp his hips.

John caught the Emperor's hands in his own and pulled them away from him, still trailing the loincloth from one hand. Slowly, purposefully, he drew Sherlock's long-fingered, sensual hands together and pulled them up until he was pinning them to the wooden bar above the bed with one of his own. "Keep these here," he murmured to Sherlock.

The Emperor's eyes widened as John again began twisting the fabric of his loincloth between his hands. "You are going to bind my hands – with your loincloth?" he said, his voice quivering with something that John hoped was arousal and not disgust.

He lifted an eyebrow anyway. "That rope would chafe and cut your skin if you pulled at them. This fabric will be kinder."

Sherlock looked slightly dazed. "Your loincloth," he repeated.

"Is that all right?" John asked, frowning.

Sherlock's fingers twitched, but his hands did not move from their position against the bar. "I suppose in a way, I will be touching you," he commented, his mouth twisting into a smile which John returned.

"In a way," he responded, leaning over Sherlock's chest to wrap the fabric around his wrists. The loincloth was longer than the rope, as well, enabling him to wrap Sherlock's wrists on their own before securing them to the bar so that the wood did not injure them. He stroked the exposed skin of his forearms gently as he tied the final knot and retreated to the foot of the bed, sitting himself cross-legged with his knees brushing the fragile soles of Sherlock's feet. "Now," he considered slowly, letting the smile show on his face. "I think I shall begin _here_."

He traced one calloused finger up the sole of Sherlock's foot, making it twitch and shy away. " _John_ ," Sherlock reprimanded, but his voice held no real irritation. John smirked and pressed a kiss to the soft arch.

"So _soft,_ " he murmured. "Your skin – every part of your body is soft, even the parts that have no business being so."

Sherlock smirked wryly. "Not _every part,_ " he replied, his eyes pointedly fixing on the proud bulge pushing out his loincloth.

John laughed as his own eyes made the journey to the admittedly impressive appendage. "Not _every_ part," he agreed. He put down the Emperor's foot and shifted onto his knees, only to bend over and suckle a faint mark into the side of first one knee, then the other. Sherlock closed his eyes, his head tipping back onto the bed, his curls fanning out against the off-white linen. John's breath stuttered in his chest.

His body was whiter than his bedclothes; so pale and vulnerable, his muscles carving subtle lines in his chest and barely visible at all in his belly until John stroked his fingers across it to tense them. Long, thin fingers curled and stretched against the white fabric of John's loincloth, and his closed eyelashes fanned across his cheeks like a horse's tail, his mouth open into a beautiful 'o' as he breathed into the sensation of John's fingers on his stomach.

Overcome, John climbed back over him to claim those lips. Sherlock gasped into the kiss, his body arching into John's, rubbing their groins together, fabric into flesh. "Oh, you," John whispered into his lips, their mouths forming the same upward curve. "Oh, _you."_

Sherlock kissed him again, his tongue frantic in John's mouth, the noise in his throat halfway between a whimper and a chuckle. "Oh, me, indeed," he murmured, his voice low and slightly husky and _so_ alluring that John could barely have stopped himself sliding down his lover's body and hooking his fingers into his loincloth.

John stopped his smugness by tugging the loincloth away from his legs and holding it in front of Sherlock's face. "I could tie this over your eyes, now," he said slowly, stroking it between his fingers. Sherlock's mouth formed another smile even as his eyes darkened. "Or shove it into your mouth until I can no longer hear your pleas for me to move faster, to _finally_ grant you your release. You could taste your own seed in the fabric, Sherlock, from where you have leaked already."

This time it was definitely a whimper. John wondered at the vulgarity of the words he could not quite prevent from spilling from his mouth; how was Sherlock _appreciating_ the things he was saying? If _he_ were the Emperor and someone were speaking to him like that, even someone he loved, he would have thrown them to the gladiators in the Circus. He forced himself to smile and toss the fabric over his shoulder with an affectation of carelessness. "Fortunately for you, I enjoy the sound of your voice and I want you to watch me."

John smirked at the trembling man underneath him and kept his mouth closed as he bent his head to Sherlock's inner thighs. The Emperor sighed, his eyes closing again. John was quietly surprised that he had not attempted to push John to go faster yet. As a reward, he stuck out his tongue and licked a long, firm stripe up the seam of his balls, resting his nose at the base of the long, proud erection he found at the end of his tongue. Sherlock made a guttural sound in the back of his throat; when John looked up at him around his penis, he had twisted his hands to grip _each other_ in the absence of anything else to grip and was biting desperately at his bottom lip – and he _still_ only looked down at John and exhaled shakily, his hands trembling as they clutched at each other. John grinned cheekily at him as though to illustrate that he had no desire to speed up, certain that Sherlock would protest at the gesture.

The younger man whimpered again and squeezed his eyes shut, letting his head fall back against the headboard.

Impressed, John took hold of the base of Sherlock's arousal and swallowed as much of it as he could.

Sherlock let out an almighty shout; John heard the bar above the bed creak and shift as his arms tensed reflexively, yanking it away from the wall. He released the appendage in his mouth in order to say calmly, "You see, your wrists would be bleeding had I tied them with rope."

The Emperor laughed helplessly. "Yes, very _noble_ , John," he said, though the dignity of the words was somewhat lost when they devolved into a broken moan at the renewed feeling of John's mouth on his prick.

John loved the noises Sherlock made. When he had first heard the man speak he had liked the sound of his voice, deep and smooth and now, in this context, unbearably sensual. He smiled around his mouthful, redoubling his efforts to receive more uninhibited groans of his name. When finally he pulled away, working his jaw to relieve the ache, Sherlock stared up at him with wild eyes, his curls a frenzied mess around his head.

"I love you," he gasped out.

John tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it stubbornly stayed put. "I know," he murmured back. "Thank you." He bent to kiss Sherlock, gentle and caring – he couldn't say it, he just _couldn't_ , but he could perhaps show the other man the depth of his emotion. "Tell me what you want," he said against Sherlock's lips when he could no longer breathe through the kiss.

For a moment Sherlock looked almost shy. Then his head tipped to one side; John followed his eyeline to see the bottle of oil they had used on their first night together. He began to smile; he thought that he could prepare himself with his own fingers the way that Sherlock had prepared him then, and from the position they were in now he could once again control the pace of absolutely everything.

Then Sherlock turned his head back and shifted his body timidly underneath John's. "Would you take me?" he asked. "As I took you on our first night?"

John stared at him, speechless, for a long moment. "I… Sherlock, I _cannot._ " There were so many reasons he could not that he could barely imagine doing as he was asked. What Sherlock was asking no man could endure without becoming _infame_ – on a level with John as _auctorati_ , an outcast of society. Sherlock was the _Emperor_ , and John could not be the cause of such slander.

His younger lover's body slowly relaxed underneath his own, grey-green eyes unflinchingly fixed on his own. "I _want_ you to," he said softly. "It is not as if either of us will scream it to the city – nothing will ever leave this room."

"But…" John reached down a hand to stroke the earnest plane of Sherlock's cheek. " _Why?_ "

For a heartbeat Sherlock did not answer. Then he said slowly, "Was it… pleasurable? For you?"

Still frowning, John nodded. "Immensely. But I cannot allow you –"

" _John_." He closed his mouth at Sherlock's languid drawl and purposeful rock of his hips upward, driving his erection persistently against John's rear. "I only ask this once, that I may at least experience it and judge it for myself. Only you and I will know, and by now the both of us have accepted that _infamia_ means nothing. There is nothing _wrong_ with what I ask you to do – with what _I have already_ done."

_By now the both of us have accepted that infamia means nothing._ John thought back to how he had felt on their first night together; what they had done – what _he_ had done – was something he had been taught was the job of boys and perverts. And yet, it had seemed natural to take the role when he was partnered with the Emperor, so he had done it without complaint, and when it was happening – he had never dared imagine it might feel _good._ Should he not take this chance to show Sherlock the same strange, shuddering pleasure?

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the delay in his answer. The expression brought back something the younger man had said earlier _. I must trust that you will take care of me, and you must trust that I would not have you punished for what you might do to me._ John had already decided that the exercise was a test of how much John trusted Sherlock – because he believed that the Emperor trusted him absolutely, and therefore that element of the assessment was irrelevant – and what better show of trust than this? He had to _trust_ that this was what Sherlock wanted, that he would not turn around when it was over and make out that John had forced him. No matter how things looked, no matter which of them was tied to the bed, it was John who was being laid bare, trusting his partner with his life.

"All right," he said finally. He could feel Sherlock's smile as he bent into another kiss, one hand reaching over to the bedsit for the oil as the other stroked down the side of his lover's face. "All right – _Jupiter,_ Sherlock, I can barely think." This time the Emperor chuckled against his lips, rocking his hips up lazily into John's so that their arousals throbbed together. "I have never done this before, I cannot promise you that it will not hurt."

The younger man huffed a breath against John's lips. "I trust you," he murmured in return. "I had never done it before when I did it to you – did I hurt you?"

John tried to smile. Sherlock's fingers were considerably more delicate than his own. "Not irrecoverably," he replied wryly.

The little bottle was half-full after their previous use; John wondered whether this was the only use the bottle ever came to, or whether Sherlock perhaps used the same oil to clean himself or his furniture or his longsword that he kept hidden in the trunk at the foot of his bed.

Smiling a little at the image left in his head – of Sherlock reaching for the oil to clean his sword and remembering its last occupation – he unstoppered the little bottle in a manner so much calmer than he felt.

His hands were trembling a little nonetheless, though from nerves or the intense, impatient arousal still throbbing through his body he could not quite tell, and when he went to pour a small amount over his fingers it ended up dripping over the Emperor's pectorals, sliding innocently between them and further down towards his stomach with each gasping breath.

He could not confidently reach between Sherlock's legs while still kissing his lips, and so he reluctantly left that comfort, pausing briefly to smear his lips through the oil trail between his ribs and rub it generously over Sherlock's pale nipples before settling with his chin on the soft flesh of Sherlock's belly, looking up at him while one slippery finger slid between the warm globes of the man's rear to find the nub of tightly-puckered skin.

Sherlock's flesh fluttered under his fingers, tightening even as he stroked over it, and John found it difficult to believe that even one of his thick, warrior's fingers could venture _inside_ without causing his lover unbearable pain.

To cover his own discomfort, John leaned down and took Sherlock back into his mouth, loosing a startled cry from the younger man's throat. Sherlock keened desperately as John's lips advanced, and he could feel the muscles and tendons in the Emperor's thighs straining in an effort to thrust upwards without using his hands as leverage.

Gradually, under the onslaught of John's lips and tongue, the skin beneath his stroking fingertips relaxed enough that John felt comfortable enough to slip his index finger past the ring of muscle and into the warmth beyond. Sherlock gasped, his hips arching off the bed so that John's finger immediately withdrew, his hands moving to Sherlock's hips to soothe and still him.

"Are you all right? Did I hurt you?"

Sherlock breathed deeply, his hips returning to the bed. "No – I simply – it was uncomfortable and I was not expecting it."

John watched him for a moment, his hands still soothing the soft skin of Sherlock's prominent hipbones. "Do you wish me to continue?" he asked carefully.

The Emperor paused before replying. "Yes," he said firmly.

He smiled, somewhat relieved – now that he had allowed himself to anticipate the experience of penetrating Sherlock he could barely think of anything else. "Very well, then."

His finger slid in easily this time on a controlled exhale from the Emperor; John could not help but bend to press sucking kisses wherever he could, listening to the soft sounds and feeling the twitches of muscles as Sherlock responded to the oh-so-gentle movements of John's fingers inside him.

Carefully, after an age of this, John slid a second slick finger alongside the first, coaxing a slight discomforted groan from his younger lover that eased into more pleasurable sounds as he grew used to the sensations and began to relax into them.

John could remember being in Sherlock's position, remember the feeling of long, dextrous fingers in his most intimate of places; he remembered the sensation of languid pleasure that had not lingered long enough to properly be felt, and so he continued the unhurried movements of his fingers until Sherlock's breathing deepened into drawn-out moans as three of John's fingers twisted and moved within him.

He curled his fingers downwards accidentally and bumped something inside; Sherlock's sharp cry of bewildered pleasure caught him by surprise. "All right?" he asked lightly, stopping the movement of his fingers until his lover pushed his hips down against them in protest.

"Fine," the Emperor gasped. "That – that thing, please do that again – _ah_!"

John smiled as he started up the twisting rhythm of his fingers again, diverting every now and again to brush against the little bump that had caused such a reaction, feeling Sherlock wind himself tighter and tighter with deep cries of pleasure, his own manhood clamouring so desperately for attention that John briefly dropped his other hand to it for a placating stroke.

Sherlock began to twitch desperately as he watched John, a hand between each of their legs. "John, please," he said, his voice breaking into yelps of pleasure, "please, you must stop – _stop!_ "

John did so, tilting his head inquiringly as Sherlock struggled to breathe. The curly-haired ruler smiled weakly at him. "Another moment and it would all have been over," he admitted. John kissed him to hide his smile.

"Perhaps we will wait a moment before continuing," he advised, leaning over to kiss the Emperor gently while keeping his fingers where they were. Sherlock grunted and slid his tongue alongside John's, his lips curled at the edges into a smile. "You are exquisite, Sherlock," John assured him quietly.

It did not take long for him to grow impatient with kissing, though; soon enough Sherlock twisted his body violently, almost throwing John off him with a bark of, "Enough!"

John chuckled. He almost pointed out that Sherlock was not in a position to dictate when it was _enough_ , but a glance at his flushed, wild face and his curls sticking damply to his forehead with sweat stopped his tongue. He really _had_ had enough; much more and the vivid pleasure spiking quite obviously through Sherlock's slim body would turn agonisingly painful. "As you say," he murmured instead, drawing his hands through the last of the oil half-absorbed into Sherlock's chest and applying it gingerly to his prick, biting his tongue as hard as he could to hold back the pleasure.

Sherlock caught his breath as John positioned himself over him, his grey-green eyes wide. "Are you ready?" John asked him steadily, wondering what he would do now if Sherlock answered in the negative.

Thankfully, the younger man nodded, and John gripped himself steadily and sank into him.

The taller man did not breathe until John was fully within him, and it was his frantic exhale that made John remember that he had not breathed either. Sherlock gripped him tighter than he had ever felt before, and he had to close his hands on either side of Sherlock's tied ones until his knuckles went white to regain a semblance of control.

" _John_ ," Sherlock choked helplessly. John slowly let go of the bar above the bed, letting himself down until his head fitted neatly into Sherlock's neck.

He kissed there. " _Perfect_ , Sherlock, so perfect," he whispered into the overheating skin.

Sherlock whimpered. "John," he repeated. " _Please_."

"Does it hurt?" he asked quietly, licking the sweat from the patch of skin on which his mouth resided.

The Emperor chuckled. "No. You have been more than careful, John, and now I want – I _need_ you –"

John understood perfectly what he needed, and so he thrust his hips forward sharply, making Sherlock yelp and clatter the bar above the bed against the wall. As he rested there, fully seated inside the gloriously tight warmth, Sherlock let out his breath on an abandoned moan. "John –"

" _Yes,"_ John replied, already withdrawing for another solid thrust. Sherlock cried out as he made it, his fingers twisting desperately against the fabric binding his wrists together. John gave him no time to recover before thrusting again, setting up a firm, fast motion that Sherlock struggled to match, hooking his legs around John's waist and crying out loudly – _too loudly_ , a part of his brain thought to interrupt, but John couldn't pay attention to it – with each thrust.

The _relief_ of it was overwhelming; no way could John hold back now, and he thought that Sherlock might actually feed him to wild animals if he did. He gasped out a desperate iteration of the Emperor's name and reached down to take hold of his purpling erection and that was it. Sherlock threw his head back in an exultant scream, his toes curling so tightly that they brushed John's back, as he shuddered with pleasure. John somehow found the presence of mind to reach up and pull the fabric tying Sherlock's wrists undone before his own climax exploded through him, blinding him to everything else until his lover's screams died down into sated whimpers and their slick, sweaty chests heaved together.

For a few moments the only sounds echoing through John's ears were his own heartbeat and their heavy, desperate breathing. Sherlock shifted his newly-freed arms to John's back and squeezed them, pulling him uncomfortably closer. John just chuckled lazily, too exhausted to protest, and kissed the nearest part of him, feeling slightly dazed, as though observing everything from underwater.

Then the running footsteps grew near enough to be audible, and John's brain began to very slowly kick itself back into gear. Sherlock's scream at his climax presented itself to him from the perspective of the soldiers stationed near his room as the footsteps made a clear beeline for the door; John drew a sharp breath in. "Sherlock –"

"Your Excellency?" A young man was banging on the door with what sounded like the butt of a spear.

Sherlock stretched indolently. "I am fine," he shouted back, turning his head towards the door so as not to shout in John's ear. "I apologise for disturbing you. Go back to your posts."

The soldier at the door did not relent. John breathed a sigh that was half-irritation, half-relief; on the one hand, he would very much like the matter to be left alone and not to be identified as the cause of the Emperor's scream, but on the other, guards that took the voice of the man they were guarding as enough evidence that he was in no danger would be poor guards indeed. "My Lord, if you would open the door so we may be certain?" he requested politely.

John made to remove himself from Sherlock's arms, but the Emperor clutched him tighter and turned his head away again. "I am _fine,_ " the young ruler insisted. "It was simply a nightmare. The sooner I can return to sleep, the sooner I will be rid of it."

"My Lord Emperor, I am afraid I must insist –" the guard broke off mid-sentence; there was a flurry of activity outside the door, a low, insistent voice, and then a clatter of armour as the guards moved away from the door. He looked up into his lover's face and frowned.

The next knock on the door was the softer rap of bare knuckles; Sherlock's head shot around to look, but his entire body slumped in John's arms as a soft, almost dangerous voice followed the knock. " _Sherlock_."

"Who is it?" John tried to ask, but the Emperor was already sitting up, twisting away from him, his face scrunched into a petulant frown.

"Go _away_ , Mycroft," he shouted childishly.

There was a pause, but John did not believe that Sherlock had expected the command to be obeyed, and the voice spoke again, firmer this time. "Sherlock Holmes," it said sharply, "Emperor or not, you will open this door right now or I will have it broken in."

With a great sigh, Sherlock wrapped his lean body in the sheet from the bed and went to open the door. John watched with some amusement as he glared at the tall, thin man on the other side of the heavy door; Mycroft Holmes' gaze travelled visibly from the sheet to John to Sherlock's hands clutching the linen to his chest and his slightly menacing smile widened. John swallowed; careful as he had been, it was very possible the fabric of his loincloth had left marks on Sherlock's wrists. "Thank you, dear brother," Mycroft said softly. "You understand our concern, of course – I would not be surprised if the entire city heard you scream. Evidently we were mistaken about the nature of the sound."

John tried very hard to meet the sneering gaze that Mycroft Holmes was directing at him, feeling his face turn red at the scrutiny. He felt as though the tall man was staring right _through_ him, into his fears and desires and secrets. "Forgive me," the man concluded finally. "Enjoy the rest of your evening."

Sherlock slammed the door in his face and scrambled quickly back into bed, throwing the sheet over the both of them and burrowing his face into John's neck. "He knows," he murmured into the skin there.

John tried not to let his body betray any of the emotions that the knowledge sent spinning through his body. Sherlock's older brother knew exactly what John had just done to him. "Will he do anything?" he asked, but he thought he already knew the answer; the look on Mycroft Holmes' face had been one of open, savage amusement, but not one of malice.

Sherlock yawned into John's neck. "No," he replied. "I think he may even have been _jealous._ "

That caught John so much by surprise that he laughed, rolling the two of them into a more comfortable position and settling down to sleep. "With good reason," he said lightly.

Sherlock chuckled, cupping John's face in one hand and pressing a goodnight kiss to his forehead. " _Very_ good reason," he agreed.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I'm sorry about the wait - I had the mid-semester rush to contend with and then I've had a really terrible last few days. Thanks so much to everyone who commented last chapter - you made me so proud of my co-author. Not that I wasn't terrifically proud of him in the first place.

It hurt to sit down.

He couldn't help the tiny wince when his rear had connected with the unforgiving stone of the arena's benches, but he'd certainly tried to hold it back and not glance guiltily towards Mycroft to see whether he had noticed the movement. He could _feel_ the knowing sneer directed towards him from his brother's direction and it rankled slightly; why should Mycroft look at him like that when he had no idea what Sherlock had done and why he had done it?

After a moment, he shifted in exaggerated discomfort and looked up at the taller Holmes. Mycroft was still watching him with an ugly sort of leer; Sherlock leaned back against the edge of the bench and steadily gave his brother a smug, satisfied smile.

It was a _pleasant_ sort of burn, after all. The kind of pain that one cannot prevent themselves from fidgeting with, poking at, reassuring themselves that it is still there. Sherlock's abdomen ached in the same pleasant manner, though he could not be certain that it was the pain that was pleasant or the lingering tingles from John's farewell earlier that morning.

" _Sherlock."_

_He'd woken up to a warm body in his arms and rough fingers stroking across his hip; he'd known what the sunlight warming his eyelids had meant, and so he'd tightened his grip on the man who had called his name and mumbled into his neck, "No."_

_John had laughed. "Sherlock, I must," he had said. "Lestrade will know exactly why I am not in my bedchamber."_

_Sherlock knew that he would have to let John go – because John wanted to go, not because he was afraid of Lestrade – but he had grunted noncommittally and sought out John's lips with his own instead. He missed, and his lips spent probably longer than necessary exploring the dip of John's eyelids, but the gladiator's hand was still stroking his hip, inching closer to the drop that would brush it against his groin at every pass, and he could barely muster the thought to quest downwards to the damper warmth of John's mouth._

_John had broken away from the kiss just as Sherlock could feel himself begin to languidly stiffen and slid his hand knowingly between Sherlock's legs; Sherlock had yelped at the feel of John's hand on his penis and rocked forwards into it, his lips seeking John's again. The dimachaerus had grasped Sherlock and given one long, slow pull on his half-hard member, letting Sherlock feel the intoxicating drag of the callous on the inside of his thumb just above the knuckle, and then let him go and scooted off the end of the bed._

_Sherlock had pouted at him, and John had laughed. "If that still bothers you after this morning's training," he had said brightly, his eyes on Sherlock's indignant arousal, "come down to the cages and I will take care of it for you."_

_Sherlock had been completely hard in an instant, to which John let out an even louder bark of laughter, delivered a last bruising kiss more or less to Sherlock's lips, and marched out of his bedchamber, shimmying into his toga as he went._

He had taken care of his arousal himself in the end, unable to face the thought of Mycroft's face should it _still bother him_ when they arrived at the arena; the image in his mind of John dressed for the arena, still panting and covered in sweat and oil and approaching him, would certainly not have allowed him to last the morning had he _not_ dealt with the matter. The thoughts flickered through him at random – would John _take care of him_ with hands still wrapped in leather to protect them from the swords, or would he drop to his knees in the sand? Sherlock could wait in his chamber for him – Mycroft and Lestrade would look at him strangely, but he could – he could even prepare himself ahead of time, as John had prepared him the previous night, and then when he came in sweaty and panting from the fight with adrenaline still racing through his veins he could simply push Sherlock against the nearest piece of furniture and take him, and Sherlock could taste the sweat shining on his neck and clutch onto him desperately as John grunted and drove into him, the smell of leather and _John_ overwhelming him, still-wrapped hands buried in his hair and holding him in place or perhaps pressed against his mouth to hold back his scream –

Sherlock shook off the fantasy before the situation in his loincloth became irrecoverable and levelled smug eyes at Mycroft again. This time, to his delight, the taller man's sneer faltered and his eyes darted nervously around the arena as though searching for someone specific. Sherlock narrowed his own; Mycroft had better not have been looking for _John_. John was _his_.

They were sitting close to the arena today – as it was training only, the two of them and a young slave sitting cross-legged behind them with a jug of wine were the only spectators. Sherlock liked to sit closer, to be on a level with the gladiators. When was smaller and Lestrade had been painstakingly teaching him how to handle a sword, Sherlock had occasionally fancied that one day when Mycroft was Emperor he would run away from the court and volunteer as a gladiator. He had grown up knowing that he would not survive in the Circus Maximus, but the dreams of glory in battle had remained with him. In his early teens he had watched his father sentence a group of rogue sailors to death for pirating and briefly entertained the idea of defecting to the seas after the leader of their band, dressed in gaudy fabrics Sherlock had never seen anything like, had bent his head to him and winked. Sherlock had recounted his image of life as a pirate to a chuckling Lestrade, who had patiently listened until the point when he had speculated that the man's clothing had come from beyond the borders of the Known World.

It came down to the fact that if he watched enough of their training sessions, the gladiators _accepted_ him. If he were around them enough, they began to treat him in much the same manner as they treated Lestrade; with the respect owing to their superior, but a certain degree of comfortable affection that all the noble men in Rome could not seem to bring themselves to show him. He felt as though he had _earned_ the respect of these men rather than inherited it. And that was another thing that Mycroft could not understand, having been bowed and scraped to as the future Emperor all of his life.

Sherlock smiled at each gladiator as he ventured into the arena, comfortable with the fact that he knew each man's name and where he had come from. Two of them had volunteered to the arena as younger men, full of the arrogance of youth; the rest, besides John, were slaves captured in battle from foreign places. He had offered each their freedom or a place among his gladiators when he had decided that he wanted them in his court, but Sherlock knew just as well as any of them the addictive nature of winning bouts, and no-one had ever chosen a freedman's life.

John's greeting sweep of blue eyes from Sherlock's hair to his sandals was nothing less than smouldering – there was a fire in his eyes that caught Sherlock's blood and pulled it to his cheeks. Evidently John had not been as unaffected by his abrupt exit earlier as he had carefully shown himself to be; Sherlock smirked at the knowledge and stretched out his position languidly on the bench, allowing himself to wince when the new pose inflamed the ache in his rear. To his satisfaction, the dimachaerus faltered and almost tripped.

"All right," Lestrade barked as they assembled around him. John's eyes were still on Sherlock; the silver-haired lanista snapped his fingers in front of his face irritably. "John, over here."

The gladiator grinned at Sherlock before looking back at Lestrade amid titters from the others. Sherlock glanced at the slave-boy behind him, his eyes following those of the assembled gladiators. It was lucky that the boy was there, really; he was a much more likely target of John's openly lascivious expression. "Only one sword for now, John – you will spar with Angelo. Watch your feet."

Within minutes, John's gold-tanned body was gleaming with sweat and Sherlock was trying not to watch him dart back and forth, jabbing his sword at his large opponent's body but always stopping just short of injuring the other man, twisting acrobatically out of the way of similarly-controlled blows from the gladiator.

It wasn't just the sight of John's body, the way the muscles of his back rippled with each lunge. It was the way he was moving it, the ease and control and the pure _skill_ with which he wielded the sword and dipped and dived with it, that had Sherlock on edge and fidgeting on his seat. He wondered briefly whether he would have to stop watching the gladiators train or spend the rest of his days in a sort of perpetual state of arousal.

"Are you still certain that this business with John Watson is the best course of action?"

It took Sherlock a moment to break through the haze of conflicted arousal and realise that his brother was talking to him. The realisation that he would have to face Mycroft solved the problem entirely. "Of course," he replied. "It is working exactly as I planned it to."

The thing was, though, he wasn't sure that it was. Far from ridding him of his desire for the gladiator, their agreement had _inflamed_ it. He no longer simply wanted John in his bed, he wanted him in his _life_. He wanted John to be able to sleep in his bed every night, even if they did nothing more than curl around each other before settling into sleep; he wanted to grumble to John about Mycroft and the complete _dullness_ of his council and rub away the aches in the dimachaerus' muscles after each bout. He had planned for the eventuality of his still desiring John once Mary's killer had been found, but not like this. This was unsettling in its blinding intensity, and Sherlock _wanted_ it.

But things had not changed for John the same way that they had for Sherlock; he had had to bite his lips to hold in the declaration of love that had wanted to escape him once more that morning to avoid the stinging pain in his chest when John smiled at him and did not reply. He knew that John desired him – that much was delightfully obvious – but would it be enough once their initial agreement was over to keep him in Sherlock's bed? And if it was, would Sherlock settle for simple desire, for the smiles when he told John that he loved him and the constant fear that he would change his mind?

_Yes._ If John was by his side, Sherlock was beginning to think he would settle for anything.

He opened his mouth to say something scathing to his brother, but Mycroft's eyes were narrowed and fixed on something over Sherlock's shoulder. "Y-your Excellency?"

Sherlock looked around; another young slave was fidgeting nervously with his toga beside him, slightly out of breath as though he had run there. "Yes? What is it?"

The young man stuttered. "Uh… your Excellency, there is a woman to see you. She says her business is urgent."

"A woman?" Sherlock frowned.

"Her name is Hudson, your Excellency. She is waiting outside the arena – she said that you would recognise her."

He nodded quickly, moving to stand immediately. "Of course. Take me to her." He turned to the other slave still crouched behind Mycroft and made a jerking motion to stand. "I require Watson," he told the boy, his eyes leaving him as soon as he had seen the eager nod and scanning the sparring gladiators instead. "And Angelo. Inform Lestrade that it is to do with the matter we investigated two nights ago. I will wait for them outside the arena, but they must be quick."

The boy scrambled to do as he had asked. Sherlock gave Mycroft a perfunctory smile. "Do enjoy the rest of training, Mycroft," he smirked.

To his surprise, Mycroft's freckled face pinked slightly. His thin lips, however, curled into his usual scathing smile. "Removing Watson from training is hardly going to help him survive the Saturnalia tournament," he said softly.

Sherlock smiled at him, looking up to see Lestrade frowning at the boy and beckoning John and his burly sparring partner over. "I would not be so sure," he replied smugly. "I find it helps to have something to _live for._ "

* * *

Mrs Hudson was wringing her hands outside the arena; at the sight of Sherlock, she let out a sigh of relief and rushed towards him. She was a petite, wiry-haired woman dressed in a chiton that had been violently dyed with some kind of berry colour, her face beginning to sag with age but unmistakeably kind. Sherlock smiled at her as she approached, opening his arms to fold her into an embrace. "Sherlock," she blustered fondly. He kissed her lightly on the cheek, ignoring the way the young slave was gaping at them.

"Are you all right, Mrs Hudson?" he asked, setting her down in front of him and studying her face.

She smiled weakly. "Yes, dear, I am fine – one of your children came to see me this morning. A little girl – _Tiger_ , I think she called herself, I have no idea where they get these names from, honestly –"

Sherlock tried to smile patiently instead of roll his eyes at her blustering. "What did she say?"

"Oh, she was in a dreadful hurry. She said the man you were looking for with one leg was at the docks again, but, Sherlock, he was getting into a boat and she said it looked as though he were making to sail –"

Sherlock cursed; the moment the door to the arena flew open he had grabbed John by the wrist and started to run, with only a cursory call of, "Come on, John!" to warn him that they were leaving.

John stumbled, but Sherlock saw him shrug at the other gladiator out of the corner of his eye, and after a few steps they were running together. "Where are we going?" he asked. "Was that your Mrs Hudson?"

"The docks, John, the docks!" Sherlock shouted, ignoring the second question as obvious. "Small is making a break for it, there is no time to waste!"

The three of them broke into a sprint, Angelo throwing puzzled looks between them as he kept up. "Why am I here, my Lord?" he asked amiably.

Sherlock cast him a quick glance. "Brawn," he confessed, earning a grin from the taller man. "You two are very obviously gladiators – far more intimidating than one man in a purple cloak."

"You do not think he will stop when he sees that the Emperor is aware of his actions?" John questioned. Sherlock thought they were both far too comfortable with the punishing pace he was pushing them to; his own lungs were burning and talking seemed far more difficult than they were displaying.

He tried not to pant as he answered. "It depends how much further ahead of us he is," he explained, cursing his voice as it broke on him. "Whether he is prepared to sail by the time we get there."

To his relief, John simply nodded and pushed on even faster, a pace which Angelo matched easily and Sherlock reluctantly endured. By the time they reached the docks and the two fighters stopped, Sherlock doubled over immediately, gasping to catch his breath.

John rested a hand on his back and laughed kindly. "Forgive me, my Lord," he said, hesitating a moment over Sherlock's title as though unsure whether to use it. "I did not think – it should have occurred to me that you were not used to our levels of exercise."

Sherlock straightened after a few more breaths, waving him away with a flap of his hand. John did not move his own from between Sherlock's shoulder-blades. "Not at all, Watson," he said airily. John smiled weakly at the formal address. "The faster we were able to get here – can you see Small?"

"I am not sure – oh! Your boy from the alley is here."

He looked up quickly to see Wiggins running towards him. "Your Excellency!" the boy shouted as he approached. "The one-legged man is leaving! They are leaving on a boat!"

John's hand on his toga tightened. "Take us there," Sherlock said abruptly, patting the boy gently on the back once they were level with him. "You have done excellently."

The little boy beamed, and Sherlock felt the little bloom of warmth that always came from his treatments with the city's orphans. He had little time to think on it, however, as the boy led them around a corner and into the margins of the docks, past the flagships and galleys and into the ranks of the smaller fishing-boats and sloops, a veritable maze of wooden planks and the shouts of fishermen. It would be very easy to ready a boat quickly, Sherlock reasoned. Any conversation about the reasons for their escape would be swallowed in the mess of others trying to be heard over the constant roar of the sea.

Wiggins stopped dead in the middle of the boarded path; Sherlock, eyes fixed on the boats and attempting to scan them for the black imposter and the one-legged Small, would have barrelled straight into him had Angelo not flung out a hand to stop him. "Apologies, my Lord," he smiled, once Sherlock had realised what he had done.

"Not at all," he replied. "Wiggins?"

The boy was pointing at a small fishing-vessel a few boats down from where they were standing. "I thought mebbe we should stop afore they see us, your Excellency. You 'specially."

Sherlock looked down at him in surprise. Wiggins often displayed rather acute logical thinking that Sherlock would not have expected from someone of his background; occasionally, he considered whether a position in the court might suit him, but he was almost certain the boy would decline it in favour of looking after the rest of the children. "Very good," he replied.

John's hand asserted itself by gripping onto his elbow; Sherlock looked up to see his eyes fixed on the man making steady progress across the deck of the fishing-boat with a heavy wooden crutch. His face was twisted into an expression Sherlock would give away a considerable amount to never see on it again. This man had murdered John's wife; Sherlock would kill him himself if John wanted him to, and wasn't that a terrifying thought – that he was perfectly willing to drive his broadsword through a man he did not know simply because he had once made John unhappy.

"Oh," Sherlock cursed softly. "Mars and Jupiter."

The gladiators looked at him curiously; Sherlock shrugged. "I am unarmed – I was not expecting this, I do not generally bring a weapon to _watch_ other men fight."

Angelo clapped him ringingly on the back. "That is why you have us, my Lord," he replied easily, his rich voice ill-suited to a whisper. "We are your arms."

It was true that Sherlock was unlikely to be hurt with two extremely capable gladiators at his side – especially given that Angelo would be focussed only on Sherlock's safety, even where John might forget about it in favour of Small. Even so, he still felt vulnerable without the weight of his familiar weapon at his hip. He shifted uncomfortably. "How long have they been preparing to sail, Wiggins?" he asked, watching Small flap his hands at his surly-looking black accomplice, leaning heavily on his crutch.

The boy looked at Tiger and shrugged. "We waited for a few minutes when they got here to make sure they weren't going away again. When we saw them get into the boat Tiger started running as fast as she could – you en't seen Tiger running, your Excellency. She's mighty fast."

Sherlock looked around for the lithe girl with the flaming orange hair. "Where is she now?"

"Dunno," Wiggins replied, shrugging again. "Most like still at Mrs Hudson's. She likes to check up on us when we visit, you know."

It made sense. The woman had been on her own since her husband had died, and she'd always loved looking after Sherlock when he gravitated towards her as a child – fussing over and caring for the occasional orphan who strayed into her path must give her something to make her feel important. Sherlock nodded; at least someone other than himself was looking after the children. "Very well. So they cannot have been working on the boat for longer than thirty minutes, to account for Tiger finding Mrs Hudson, Mrs Hudson finding us and then us running here – they will almost be off, I should think. John, how would you suggest we approach this?"

John growled deep in his throat. Sherlock schooled his face to remain neutral and not allow his mind to wander to the last time he had heard the dimachaerus make that particular noise. "I want nothing more than to walk over there and rip out his throat."

Sherlock tilted his head to one side as though considering. "Tempting," he admitted. "Perhaps to avoid your own trial we should attempt to capture the both of them and make their death sentence a public affair."

The shorter man looked sharply at him. "You will allow me to kill him?" he asked, sounding surprised.

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "Once we have him, I will allow you to do anything you want," he replied coolly. The corner of John's thin lips twitched upwards.

Angelo cleared his throat. "If someone is going to be killing someone, I believe I have the right to a rudimentary explanation of what's going on." He shrugged apologetically when Sherlock looked his way.

"Those two men are responsible for the murder of John's wife," Sherlock explained calmly.

The big man's face hardened visibly; he glanced from John to the boat and back to focus on Sherlock. "All right," he replied. "We should go, then."


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You see how quickly things get done when I'm the one doing them? 
> 
> However, I will freely admit that I have no knowledge whatsoever of sailing, be it our time or theirs, so I've taken a lot of artistic license with this chapter.

Sherlock had bunched his purple cloak over his shoulders as they ran; he spread it out now, over one arm and down to fall across his toga in true ceremonial fashion. He seemed to stand straighter, too, pulling himself up a further two inches on his already impressive height.

_He looks like an Emperor,_ John thought ridiculously. Then he almost laughed aloud; of _course_ Sherlock looked like an Emperor. If he approached Small incognito the way that he had been conducting the rest of the investigation, the man was hardly likely to take him seriously. It was more than likely he would see the purple cloak of office, held in place by a pin so like the one that had started all of this fuss, and be frightened into giving up.

The Emperor frowned down at his laugh. "Is something amusing, John?" he asked, sounding slightly put-out.

"Not at all," John replied hastily. "I was reflecting on how familiar I have become with you, that you almost look strange when you act like the Emperor."

A tiny sort of pleased smile crept across Sherlock's face. "I am glad you can separate that part of me from everything else," he replied softly. "The Emperor may be _who_ I am, but I do not wish it to be seen as _what_ I am."

"What you are," John assured him, a slight smile fighting its way onto his face, "is _brilliant_. Now, shall we go?"

The Emperor gave him a wry smile, and then stepped boldly out from behind the boat that had hidden them from Small's view and snapped the heels of his sandals together in front of the slightly larger fishing vessel the two had commandeered. John wondered whether it was Small's, or whether they had stolen it.

"Jonathan Small."

Sherlock's voice was calm, and yet it rang across the dockyard with so much authority John's knees twinged with the schooled urge to buckle and prostrate himself. Small's face contracted as though they had plunged a torch into his backside. He stared, apparently dumbstruck, from Sherlock to John and back again.

John wondered how it must look from his point of view. What must Small think he had done to get the Emperor on his side, _by_ his side, to track him down? He himself could barely fathom the chain of events that had led him from where Small had left him, broken and without hope, to where he was at the moment, strong and determined with the most wonderful man in the Empire by his side.

His muscled Black companion, however, had not frozen; in fact, at the sight of Sherlock's purple coat and John's familiar, furious face, he had sped up his ministrations to the sails. Now they unfurled with a majestic _flump_ , fluttering uselessly against the wind, and the barbarian scampered back towards them to unhook the mooring line and push the boat off the shore, to be caught by the currents of the river.

" _Jonathan Small!_ " Sherlock called again, and there was a thunder in his voice that made even John jump, as though the authority of Jupiter himself were in him. Small crouched slightly, like a hare startling at a loud noise. His eyes darted from them to the growing distance between the boat and the dock. For a moment he looked defeated, and John allowed himself to relax slightly in anticipation of a surrender. "You will berth your vessel and surrender yourself," Sherlock told him, as though without even the slightest doubt that he would not be obeyed. The pause stretched out until Sherlock opened his mouth again, drawing in breath for a proper threat.

" _GO!_ " Small screamed at his companion, hobbling back to the sails to direct them into the wind while the black fighter took up oars and began to haul them away.

Sherlock actually snarled, ducking around Angelo and boarding the nearest sloop, snapping his fingers at the hapless fisherman, who dropped his net in surprise. "Follow them," he snapped at the man. "It is imperative that we catch those two thieving murderers."

The fisherman gaped at him for a moment. Then, "Yes, your Excellency," he stuttered, dashing for the mooring line. John dropped quickly to one oar and Angelo followed suit; at the _splosh_ of rope into the water they began to heave at the oars. Small had not yet managed to catch the wind with his sails, so John figured the oars were their best bet – they could row harder than the other craft, but it would take them longer to prepare their sails.

John and Angelo, used to rhythmic training exercises in the arena – Lestrade was particularly fond of them – fell into an easy rhythm together fairly quickly, and for a few moments it seemed they were gaining on Small. The fisherman, however, turned to Sherlock. "Your Excellency, please forgive me, but if they catch the wind we will not be able to reach them."

Sherlock frowned mightily. "Can we drop our sails, then?" he asked.

The fisherman ducked his head, his hands rising to the ropes holding the canvas sails in place, but he said, "It is likely it will be too late, your Excellency."

John grunted and yanked the oar through the Tiber harder; to his credit, Angelo matched him. They drew minutely closer, and then closer still, until John could almost drop his oar and jump crafts, draw his knife and sink it into the throats of the two men who had ruined his life –

There was a _crack_ of canvas, and John could only watch as Small's sails began to billow outwards and stretch taut with the wind. The slightly larger boat began to pull ahead, and John's heart dropped to the pit of his stomach as the gap between their crafts lengthened.

Then Sherlock dropped quickly to his knees, scooped some kind of shellfish from the net the fisherman had been untangling, and spun it out of his fingers towards the other craft.

It hit Small's crutch. With an undignified, high-pitched shriek, the one-legged murderer overbalanced and – minutely, agonisingly slowly, so that John could almost document it as it happened – toppled into the river Tiber. John watched in awe and amazement as the sails buckled and swung inwards, the ropes flailing where the tug of Small's collapse had yanked them out of line.

John could have cheered. _Would_ have cheered, or perhaps jumped up and kissed his Emperor until they were both horizontal and gasping for breath, had he not been rowing as hard as he could to catch up with his confederate. The barbarian did not appear to have noticed the absence of his companion, though John could quite plainly see Small's crutch – and, a moment later, his flailing arms and shaggy head – bobbing to the surface in his wake.

"Do you wish to pick him up, your Excellency?" the fisherman asked, his fingers pausing on the knots holding the sails in place.

Sherlock paused, frowning at the cripple struggling to stay afloat. "No," he said finally. "Lestrade will have finished training by now. Mrs Hudson will doubtless fill him in and he will join us here with the city's lawkeepers – they can retrieve Small from the water before he drowns, I am sure. Our priority should be his rather violent companion."

They were gaining on the boat once more; Sherlock had hefted another shellfish from the net and was spinning it between his fingers. John took a moment to wonder when the Emperor had learned to throw with such precision, but it was only a moment, before the screaming muscles in his upper arms pulled his focus back to rowing.

They couldn't keep up the pace forever, but neither could their adversary; surely at this pace they would come close enough to board the larger boat before the strain of rowing became overwhelming. And yet, John was very aware that the huge fighter was now in a position where he had absolutely nothing to lose, and that could do wonders for a man's stamina. There was the tiniest sliver of possibility that this extra burst of frantic energy might come to the man just as John and Angelo began to flag, and it might just be enough to let him pull away from them. It was of course the merest of possibilities, but John could not help but let it fester in his mind; his own thirst for revenge might enable him to match the fevered strokes of the desperate man, but Angelo would surely not be able to keep up.

"You cannot outrow us," Sherlock called out, in the same calm, ringing, authoritative voice he had used on Small. The big man's strokes faltered minutely, but otherwise he gave no indication that he had heard. Sherlock frowned; when he spoke again, John was mildly surprised to hear the words in smooth Greek. "You saw what we did to your acquaintance."

This time, the Black criminal turned his head towards them and smiled, a gruesome expression showing broken, rotten teeth. "Your hard fish worked to unbalance a crippled old man," he growled in rough Greek. "It will not stop me."

Sherlock raised a cool eyebrow. "I am the Emperor of Rome and all her colonies," he pronounced clearly. "There is nowhere you can run where I will not find you."

The other man was still smiling his grotesque grin. Nausea rose in John's chest. "We shall see," the murderer growled.

At that moment, the fisherman let out a strangled noise and stepped back from the mast; the sails unfurled with a mighty noise. The boat lurched. John looked up in panic, catching Sherlock's wide grey-green eyes.

The sails were only loosely fixed to the base of the mast, and so when the wind attempted to catch on them and push them forwards they flapped out towards Sherlock before the ropes caught and they stretched taught. Even so, the little boat trembled and jumped forwards, gliding smoothly alongside the larger craft and beginning, too swiftly, to overtake it entirely. John hastily drew his oar inside the boat, but it was not enough, they were going too fast –

Angelo dropped his oar, letting it be carried over the side of the boat and swallowed by the river, and instead drew a knife from his loincloth and plunged it into the wooden prow of Small's boat and held on. The boat lurched again, water slapping over the sides as their progress was abruptly held back.

The murderer had stopped rowing when the sails fell; now he dropped the oars entirely and folded his arms sullenly over his chest. John glanced at Sherlock, who had raised an eyebrow at the criminal as if to say, _what now?_

The trapped man scrambled to his feet and dived quickly for the box at his feet. John almost gasped; he recognised that box. It had sat in the main room of Claudia Morstan's house for the better part of his life. Sherlock had taken a step forward when the man had moved – foolishly, John could not help but think, seeing as his would-be-opponent was twice his size and built like a sack of wet earth – but he paused when the black man held the box over the side of the boat. "You will not have this money," he grunted.

Sherlock shifted impatiently. "Nor will you," he assured him, his voice cold.

The big man's lips curled back off his teeth again. "So be it," he snarled.

For a moment, John thought he would throw _himself_ off the side of the boat, clinging onto the box of sestertii to pull him under. Then he flipped the catch on the box and flung the sestertii away from him. The silvery coins spun through the air, glinting in the midday sun as though laughing at John, and landed with almost gleeful plunking sounds in the river Tiber.

The murderer dropped the box at his feet with a sort of triumphant finality. A few last coins rolled out and settled at the bottom of the boat. When John looked up, the big man was holding his hands out in front of him, offering them to be bound together, a surrender.

After a glance at Sherlock, John grabbed the coil of rope from the bottom of their own boat and carefully stepped with it from boat to boat where Angelo was still holding them together.

Immediately, his target lunged forward and dealt him a ringing blow to the side of the head. John staggered, shaking his head to clear it of the sound and the fuzz of disorientation, but the hulking black fighter was already gone, leaping past him onto the other boat; Sherlock took a step towards him and John cried out to him – he was unarmed, he had no chance whatsoever and John _could not lose him_ – but the other man merely shoved him out of the way onto the floor of the boat and made a running leap for the short stretch of open water between the boat and the shore.

John's heart leapt into his throat, but Angelo once again reacted with all the speed of a leaping tiger, yanking his knife from the prow of the boat and slashing it instead across the thick muscles of the big man's thigh. The fighter howled and dropped immediately to the deck, clutching his leg; Angelo jumped up and put a knee into his broad back, holding him down and pinning his arms.

John scrambled to the side of the boat and grabbed hold of the other craft before he drifted away. "Sherlock – my Lord," he corrected hastily, shooting a guilty look at Angelo. "Are you all right?"

"Fine, thank you, John," Sherlock replied, picking himself up and shaking out his toga, smiling tenderly at John. "And youself?"

He allowed himself to breathe again, unlocking his muscles from their defensive positions. "Fine," he agreed. "Thank you, Angelo."

The other gladiator grinned up at him. "It was my pleasure," he said earnestly, digging his knee into his captive's back. "Here –" he passed his knife to Sherlock, who handed it to John. "Stick that back in her side and we should be able to lash the boats together – this one only has one oar now, I am afraid."

"I will replace it," Sherlock promised the cowering fisherman, who looked to be frozen in utter shock. "In fact, once I have ascertained that Small did not steal this boat, and I do not believe it likely that he did, you may have it if you wish, to keep or sell as you please."

The fisherman merely blinked. John snorted and bent to lash the boats together.

"Is there enough rope to bind this man to the mast?" Angelo asked. "Then I can help John to row."

Sherlock frowned. "I think if you feel capable, John, it would be best to row alone and have Angelo continue to restrain our friend here. It would be foolish to take chances, and there is no hurry – the city's best have arrived." He tilted his head back to the docks. John looked just in time to see Lestrade flap his arms in frustration and snatch a long pole with a hook fixed to the end from a tall man on whose toga John could almost make out the pin of the lawkeeper. He laughed again, his heart lighter than it had been in months.

Rowing hard enough to pull both boats through the water was not easy, but John felt as though he could achieve almost anything; he rowed as fast and hard as he could. The one-legged body that Lestrade eventually fished from the water looked decidedly unconscious, and John wanted Small to at least see his face one more time before he died.

When the boat bumped the side of the dock John jumped from it immediately, leaving Sherlock and the fisherman to affix the mooring line. Lestrade was knelt on the wooden floor of the dock, Small's prostrate, dripping body splayed out before him. Clearly at a loss for what to do, he was administering small slaps to his inert cheeks. John dropped to his own knees beside the man who murdered his wife.

"Like this," he said to the lanista, placing joined hands over Small's chest. "You must squeeze the water out of his lungs, force it back up his throat so that he can breathe again."

The echo of the man's heartbeat in his throat was faint; John knew from men who had fallen into the Tigris at Ctesiphon that even if he managed to expel the water from his lungs he may not recover. Even so, he pressed and thumped at Small's chest, praying to Juno and all her gods and goddesses to give him just five more minutes, just so that he could see John one more time. He had things he wanted to say, and things he wanted to hear.

The older lanista watched as Small finally gave a great splutter, water spouting from his clammy mouth and running pathetically onto the docks beneath him. John helped the man roll over and weakly spew the rest of the water onto the boards.

"Thank you," he croaked weakly. Then he collapsed back onto his back and caught sight of John's grim, determined expression. " _You!"_

John smiled tightly. "Me," he replied.

Small looked as though he would dearly like to get up and run away, but his body managed no more than a few limp twitches. "It was not me," he gasped instead. "Mary – I only wanted to threaten – but Tonga…"

John felt his eyes narrow and did not try to suppress the anger rising in his throat like bile. "Your _friend_?" he spat, jerking his head towards the black fighter. Small's eyes widened to see his companion standing submissively in front of Angelo with his hands tied behind his back, his posture clearly favouring his injured leg, his face downcast. "I can imagine. The fact remains that my wife is dead, brutally, horribly dead, because of you. Do not attempt to justify that, Small."

"Do not make friends with barbarians, John Watson," Small wheezed. His voice was rickety, his throat destroyed by the effort of coughing up water and breathing while he was drowning, and John almost had to lean closer to hear the words. "I promised him sestertii for saving my life after Ctesiphon. I swear it, I did not want to kill Mary. But she would not co-operate, and Tonga grew angry, please, Watson, please, please save me…" his voice trailed off into tiny, painful-sounding coughs, at the end of which he struggled to draw a breath that was clearly not enough.

John's mouth tightened into a hard line as he watched the man suffer. "You are far beyond _saving_ ," he promised.

He did not bother to wait until it was over, but got to his feet and walked away while the old man was still struggling and gasping for breath; he would not live more than a minute anyway.

Sherlock and Angelo watched him impassively as he approached; both of them looked as though they were unsure what expression was appropriate for the situation. He smiled weakly at them before turning his attention on their captive, taking the wide chin firmly in his hand and yanking until their eyes met. "That money belonged to the mother of the woman you killed," he said softly. Out of the corner of his eye, John noticed the bobbing movement of Sherlock's throat as he swallowed. He leaned closer, making sure that the man could see that his eyes were hard and completely without mercy. "Of _my wife._ "

The barbarian spat at his feet. "I have done nothing I have cause to be ashamed of," he said in sullen, broken Greek.

John clenched his fists to curb the overpowering urge to strangle the man and instead dropped into his chosen language. "You have killed two people who did nothing wrong," he replied coolly.

The big man gave what might have been a shrug, even though his hands were bound. "Sholto was a soldier. A murderer in war."

John leaned closer still until there was a mere inch between their noses. "My _wife_ was not a murderer," he persisted.

_Tonga_ , as Small had called him, met John's gaze with equal measures of cold implacability. "Your _wife_ ," he mimicked, his thick lips pulling back nastily over yellowed, half-rotten teeth, "was annoying."

John's vision darkened to a rich, blinding red. He did not hear the sound that ripped from his throat, but he knew that he was stepping backwards, fists clenched and drawing back for a blow. And then the barbarian was laughing, his terrible teeth seeming to leap out at John in his blinding anger. He shrugged his enormous shoulders once more, hard enough to tug the ropes out of Angelo's firm grip and shoulder the other gladiator in the chin. John saw as if through a filter as the man, still laughing the deep laugh of the deranged, threw himself towards John, his teeth aiming for his throat.

He had expected the move, though, from the man's first inflammatory comment about not being ashamed, and so he took a further half-step back and let his fist fly into the barbarian's face, connecting soundly with a spectacular noise. Tonga flailed for a moment, his head snapping backwards with a momentarily worrying _crunch_ , and then dropped to the ground unconscious like a stone.

Breathing hard, nursing his knuckles with the other hand, John looked up at Sherlock and Angelo. The both of them looked frozen in shock; Sherlock's face was so pale it was almost grey, but Angelo grinned when John caught his eye, rubbing at his chin ruefully. "Feel better?" he asked, his voice rich with amusement.

John grinned back. "Starting to," he admitted, shaking out his hand idly. Sherlock smiled at him, the expression weak. John noticed that his Emperor was trembling slightly.

Angelo chuckled and slung the prone body of Mary's killer over his back. "Well played, John," he rumbled. "Next stop for this one, the Circus Maximus."


	16. Chapter 16

"He is dead," Lestrade noted from behind them.

Sherlock sent a scornful glance at the lawkeepers now swarming over Small's corpse, hoping that his lanista would not see how violently he was still trembling. "Is that – Jupiter. The man from the arena."

He raised an eyebrow at this somewhat obvious statement, but he was not yet certain that he trusted his voice to speak. John, smiling softly but still tense, his shoulders hunched uncomfortably and his fists clenched, voiced the slightly sarcastic, "Yes," that was in his mind anyway.

Lestrade looked at the three of them, Sherlock to John to Angelo and his unconscious burden, looking bewildered. "Right," he said weakly. "Well. Very good. Very impressive, the three of you."

Angelo chuckled. Sherlock, grateful as he was to the both of them for their respective roles in this drama, just wanted them to go away. He wanted to be alone with John, to hold him and reassure himself that he was still there – provided, of course, that he was not merely waiting for the right opportunity to leave.

"Well, sir, we ought to get this man to the cages at the Circus," Angelo said abruptly. Lestrade stopped his speculative staring at John in favour of a worried look at Angelo. "I can carry him myself, sir, but if you would keep an eye on him in case he wakes up? I am certain that John can escort his Excellency back to the court."

Sherlock gave the gladiator a small, wan smile. He wondered whether Angelo had guessed the full extent of his relationship with John, or whether he simply gathered their friendship was something deeper than Sherlock's typical regard for his gladiators. John, too, smiled at his comrade. "Of course. Thank you, Angelo, for everything that you have done."

Angelo grinned again. "No problem," he replied, clapping the dimachaerus on the back. "I am glad that we could stop them for you. I will see you this afternoon."

And then they were gone, and Sherlock was alone with John amid the hustle and bustle of the docks. His first impulse was to throw himself on the shorter man and hold him as tightly as he could until John protested that he could not breathe, but he held back. The case was over now; he had no right to ask or expect John to react positively to his romantic attention.

John took a deep breath in and let it out noisily through his mouth. "Well," he said briskly. "That was exhilarating."

Sherlock snorted. "It certainly was that." He supposed that if he ignored his overwhelming panicked response from the fighter lunging for John's throat, the chase had been exciting, invigorating. If he could do that sort of thing again with John at his side – but perhaps with a criminal less personal to the both of them, one that would allow them to relax enough to enjoy the adrenaline – he would be more than content. "You were not hurt, John, were you, when he ran at you?"

The gladiator's face softened; he stepped closer and slipped his hand neatly into Sherlock's. "No, I was not," he assured him.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and squeezed John's hand. "I was afraid my heart would stop," he admitted. "I could not bear to lose you."

He took a step forwards as if to hug John, but the older man shifted awkwardly, his body language clearly stating that such a gesture would be unwelcome. Sherlock bit his lip until he tasted blood, his heart almost tangibly shrivelling in his chest. "We should start on our way back to the court," John said instead.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, not sure what he would do once he got there. He would have to explain to Mycroft why he had left the arena, and he would know exactly why Sherlock's lower lip would not stop trembling.

"That was incredibly quick thinking and reacting, though, John," he said bracingly as they set off. John was still holding his hand, and he didn't know how he was supposed to react to that – could the gladiator have had a different reason for refusing his embrace than not wanting him, or was the hand-holding only an attempt to let him down gently?

John laughed. "I expected him to make such an attempt from his first taunt about Mary. He was attempting to make me so angry that I could not react properly when he attacked me." His smile faded slightly – thinking about the things the man had said, no doubt – and then returned in full force. "What about _you_?" He said, poking Sherlock gently in the side and grinning. "Throwing that shellfish and hitting Small's crutch – Sherlock, that was an incredible throw, to say nothing of the _idea_ behind it. Where did you learn to throw like that?"

Sherlock chuckled as he remembered his many years of practice. "I used to throw rocks at Mycroft's wine-jug," he admitted. "He invariably reacted in a comical manner. It never grew old, watching him jump with fright when the wine splashed on his toga."

The two of them laughed. "Why is it you do not like your brother?" John asked through the giggles.

"We are very different people," Sherlock said simply, shrugging. "We always have been."

Finally, their feet carried them out of the open area of the dock and into the empty street. Sherlock sighed at the relative quiet; he needed time away from the noise of other people to think about how he would approach the subject of the indefinite future with John.

As they turned a corner, however, out of sight of the docks, Sherlock suddenly found a hand twist in the fabric of his toga. In a flurry of frantic motion he was yanked to one side and his back slammed against the rough stone of an alley wall, and then John's lips were on his, the familiar weight of John's tongue desperate in his mouth, and Sherlock forgot his fright and kissed him back.

It was frantic, as though John had been drowning without him and could not breathe him in deeply enough; Sherlock melted against the wall and tugged him closer, so close that it felt like one further pull might see his chest begin to swallow John's completely. John's hands were harsh in his hair and around his hip, and Sherlock's mind surrendered to the scraping of his fingernails, the unbearable sensation of a fast-growing hardness against his thigh.

"Thank you," John whispered against his lips before immediately plunging back into the kiss. Sherlock held on for dear life, but then his lover's lips and teeth diverted to his neck, and bile rose in his throat and he had to push John quickly away.

He had _seen_ it, in his mind's eye as the man began to move; his horrid rotten teeth sinking into the soft of John's throat and ripping out his flesh, and John falling and gasping and bleeding as Sherlock could only watch. John was saying something now, touching his face gently, but Sherlock had to squeeze his eyes shut and catch his hand, holding it tightly with his fingers against the cantering _thump-thump-thump_ of John's pulse.

"He meant to kill you," he whispered, not quite answering John's repeated _are you all right_ s. "It was as though the entire world slowed down and I could not move to stop him."

John pulled him into a tight hug. Sherlock clutched as his back, blinking tears away from his eyes. "I am all right," the gladiator murmured into his ear. "It is over now, everything is all right."

Sherlock kissed him again, quickly, and then brought out the big question. "I went to hold you, before, at the docks, and you turned me away," he said softly. "If you do not want –"

John pressed two fingers firmly against Sherlock's lips. "I needed _this_ ," he promised vehemently. "I needed your mouth, your taste – if you had held me, it would have been unmistakeably a lover's embrace, and the world does not need to know this." He ran his fingers from Sherlock's lips down his throat and into the dip of his collarbone to emphasise the final word. Sherlock shuddered.

_The world will know,_ Sherlock did not say. _I cannot keep you forever without the world realising what we are._ He let John kiss him instead, deep and slow and breathtaking, and put the thought out of his mind.

Eventually the gladiator pulled back, glancing reluctantly around the alleyway. "We ought to –"

Sherlock growled. " _No,"_ he insisted, pushing and turning John until _he_ was the one with his back against the alley wall. John's breath left him in a surprised huff, but his eyes darkened and the corners of his mouth twisted up as Sherlock swooped in for another harsh kiss. His hands travelled around to grab two sure handfuls of Sherlock's rear and yank forwards; Sherlock bent his knees slightly so that their groins rubbed together. At the ensuing quickly-stifled noise from John's mouth, he decided he may as well finish the job and dropped the rest of the way onto his knees between John's legs.

"Sherlock!" John gasped. "What if someone sees?"

He looked up at his lover, sliding his hand up John's thighs to find the beginnings of his loincloth. "John, the entire reason we are in this alley is because no-one will see," he assured him. "You knew that when you pulled me in here."

John looked as though further protests had occurred to him, but Sherlock had already untied the fabric of his loincloth into a puddle at his feet, so he only groaned at the feeling of Sherlock's hands on him, biting down hurriedly on his knuckles to stifle the sound. He huffed out a quick breath around them that almost sounded like a laugh, and then removed them again to continue speaking. "Immortal gods, Sherlock, I cannot imagine what I did to deserve everything you have given me. You are perfect, _perfect_ , and I cannot possibly repay you for the things you have done, right from the first moment you – _hnngh!_ "

Sherlock smirked around John's length, which he had taken into his mouth without warning. He had not intended the dimachaerus to fall silent, however, and so he quirked an eyebrow at him teasingly. John groaned again, but after another moment of acclimatising to the sensation, his mouth opened to another torrent of praise that made Sherlock's stomach flop and his groin ache.

"Sherlock, your _mouth_ ," John gasped, his hips bucking upwards before Sherlock held them down. "You are so incredible, and beautiful, and the cleverest man I have ever met – there is not one man in the known world like you. You are amazing, and brilliant, and I – Sherlock, I think I – _oh!_ "

Whatever John thought he was was lost in the first shock of climax in Sherlock's mouth, but Sherlock's heart-rate rocketed upwards nonetheless. Surely, _surely_ there was only one way that speech, that sentence, could end? Had John been about to say _Sherlock, I think I love you?_

He leapt to his feet and smashed his lips against John's, realising too late that the gladiator most likely did not want the slightly unpleasant taste of himself against his lips, but John did not seem to mind; his hands dropped immediately to ruck Sherlock's toga up around his waist and delve into his loincloth. He did not bother untying the garment, but merely shoved it down to Sherlock's thighs and eased his arousal free.

Sherlock buried his face in John's shoulder as his hand tightened immediately, _perfectly_. His lover smelled of sweat and musk and his hand was slick with Sherlock's own wetness to ease his quick, firm strokes until they were positively incandescent. _He loves me,_ Sherlock allowed himself to believe. _He loves me, he loves me._ "Oh," he gasped, his fingers clutching at John's biceps as his hips stuttered forwards, "oh, _oh…_ "

John held him tightly as he came, keeping him all in one place so that he could piece himself together afterwards. Panting helplessly, they sank to the ground, John's loincloth tangled around his feet and Sherlock's own uncomfortably tight around his thighs, still clutching each other close. Sherlock felt as though someone had taken him apart and not quite finished putting him back together.

They half-lay against the alley wall for a long time, until Sherlock's head had mostly stopped spinning and his breathing had evened out. Then John stood carefully and retied his loincloth, shaking out the dirt first. Sherlock made a few half-hearted attempts to rise, but it was easily apparent that his legs would not work without outside help; John chuckled at his plight and then gently pulled him up and set him on his feet before untying and re-affixing his loincloth. Sherlock watched him wrap the fabric with brisk efficiency, and when it was done John carefully tipped Sherlock's face downwards and kissed him chastely on the lips. "Do not think that I could leave you, Sherlock," he said quietly.

Sherlock kissed him sweetly and then rested their heads together. He suddenly felt immensely sleepy. "We must return to the court," he murmured. "It would not do to arrive later than Lestrade and Angelo when they had to stop at the Circus and we did not."

John chuckled, and with a last brief tug at each other's clothes they started back down the alley. "What will you do with Tonga, now?" he asked as they turned back into the street. A woman carrying a box of apples shot them a startled look before scampering away with a murmured, "Your Excellency". Sherlock smiled at her, wondering if it was obvious that he had just had John's genitalia in his mouth.

"People saw us apprehend him," he reasoned. "He must be executed in the Saturnalia games. The method of his execution I will allow you to decide."

"I want to do it," John said immediately.

Sherlock gave a small smile. There were other people who would be executed at the games, but it would not be unusual or difficult to ensure that John alone despatched this one criminal. "Very well."

They walked for a while longer, until they would hear the sounds of the forum drifting back through the streets. "I would like to face him in as fair a fight as is possible," John ventured finally.

Sherlock almost tripped over a misplaced stone in the street, the screams and sounds of the city's centre loud in his ears. "No," he replied quickly.

They rounded a corner before John could protest and stumbled out into the forum; the noise of the semi-permanent markets and general bustle in their immediate vicinity died to a slightly awed hush. Sherlock hurriedly yanked off his purple cloak and tossed it behind a fountain. He would still be recognised, of course, but it might take people longer and it was more likely they would comply with a silent finger to the lips.

"I am not here as your Emperor," he assured the staring people around them. "Please, we wish to be nothing special today."

They wandered through the square idly so as to blend in better with the other people packed into the city centre; a few people glanced at Sherlock more than once, looking puzzled, but most dismissed him. He could feel John fidgeting beside him, clearly itching to argue the point Sherlock had made earlier. It was somewhat comforting to know that he had the last word over this matter, that John could not risk his life here again if Sherlock did not wish it.

John's hand nudged pointedly against his wrist. "Look, my Lord, it is one of your street children."

Sherlock followed the gladiator's eyeline into a corner beside someone selling slabs of meat. Sure enough, one of the children who had been there when he had called them to find Small was hunched against the side of the stall. It didn't look as though the vendor had noticed her, but her eyes were fixed hungrily on a large quantity of tough, smoked meat hanging up beside the big man. Sherlock casually adjusted their course so that it would bring them up beside her – he knew that she would eventually judge her moment, snatch the jerky and run, and that she most likely would not make it far before they caught her.

"How much?" Sherlock asked the butcher, gesturing towards the hanging strips of meat.

The seller looked him up and down without interest, clearly not recognising him. Sherlock allowed himself a slight smile. "Four denarii," he grunted finally.

Sherlock frowned. " _Four_?" he repeated incredulously.

The vendor paused, turned back to him. "For you, three," he amended.

"If it is good quality, it may be worth two," Sherlock pressed. John gave a small snort beside him, sounding highly amused. The vendor, however, curled his lips into a wry smile.

"Two denarii will not allow me to feed my children," he protested, not sounding upset about that in the least.

Sherlock returned the smile. "Any more than that and I will not be able to feed mine," he lied.

The vendor's smile widened. "You are robbing me blind," he lied in return, but he allowed Sherlock to place two small coins on his table and hook down the meat. Sherlock broke a small portion off the end and handed it to John, who smiled weakly at him; when the vendor, apparently satisfied, turned his back, Sherlock tossed the rest of the jerky into the girl's lap with a wink and walked away.

John laughed as they rejoined the crowd. Sherlock couldn't help but smile; John's laugh was a wonderful sound, a kind of helpless peal of giggles that he couldn't hold back. There was something childish, pure, joyful about it. "How do you even know how to haggle?" John asked incredulously.

Sherlock joined in his laughter. "Mrs Hudson taught me," he admitted. "We were just two people in the marketplaces, people had no idea who I was. I wanted to keep it that way, so she taught me how to blend in, and that meant haggling. We both looked like we had money, so people put up their prices when they saw us coming."

Eventually they broke free of the forum and back into the street leading to the hill; John turned to him immediately. "It would not be a risk, Sherlock," he continued, as though they had not left the conversation. "I know what you are thinking, but it would not – he almost got the better of me in the court arena because I was not expecting him to attempt to hurt me. In a fair fight to the death I would defeat him, I know I would."

Sherlock did not want to have this argument – at the very least, he wanted time before they had it. "Do you honestly believe that _he_ will fight fairly?" he asked.

"No," John admitted, "but in a fight to the death, there is not much that you can do unfairly. I have been trained as a gladiator, Sherlock, the entire purpose of our profession is to be prepared for the dirty moves of desperate men. In the Circus Maximus, there _are_ no fair fights – it is the way I have been trained, and you _know_ I am good at it."

Sherlock stopped walking to turn to John, anger bubbling in his stomach. "And I cannot know how good _he_ is at it. We do not know where he is from, what he had done before he met Small – he could have been trained similarly, he could have been trained _better_. It _is_ a risk, John. I cannot allow a gladiator from my own court to run the risk of facing a criminal sentenced to death and _losing_ in the Circus Maximus. Even _if_ my desire to give you everything you want outweighed my desire to keep you safe, this cannot simply be about you and me."

John fell still, watching him with an odd expression on his face. "This is what you do, I know," he said softly. "With those children, the jerky and the sestertii and sending them to Mrs Hudson – you try to protect people, to keep them safe, and you think that it's a part of being Emperor, but it's a part of being _human_ that you… you can't protect everyone."

"But I _can_ protect _you,_ " Sherlock protested, grabbing John by the shoulders. "I have already thought that I would lose you once today. I _cannot_ knowingly put you in front of the _same_ person without being absolutely certain that you will come out again. I could not stop it last time, but I can and I _will_ this time."

John's shoulders were tense under his hands, and his face was bordering on furious. Sherlock understood how John felt; he would not be comfortable with acting as an executioner either. Being put in an arena with an unarmed man and told to kill him would be difficult. But the point of the Circus Maximus, especially at Saturnalia, was to be a bloodbath, not a fair fight. He knew that killing his wife's killer in cold blood would not satisfy John's desire for revenge, but arming a criminal and putting John in the ring with him alone would be a scandalous move. Sherlock knew that he could not afford any further talk about his relationship with John before he knew how best to present it to the public. And he didn't _want_ to put John out there, into danger, to worry about him no matter how small the chance that he would not come out on top.

"I…" John's voice was thin and brittle, and Sherlock's heart broke listening to him. He wondered if he would ever be able to give John the things he needed – the adrenaline and excitement and tactical display – in a way that would not make his heart twist and his palms slick every time the warrior left his sight. "I need to know that I am better than him," he admitted weakly.

Sherlock bit his lip. "You just told me that you already knew that," he reminded him.

John sighed. "I _do_. But I cannot look him in the eyes and _execute_ him."

"You do not have to do it yourself," Sherlock said, but he already knew that John would not step aside and let someone else do it, and sure enough John was already shaking his head. "I am sorry," he told him quietly. "But this is the best I can do."

The dimachaerus stood for a few more moments, breathing shallowly, his face carefully blank. Then he nodded sharply. "I know," he admitted, stepping forwards and collapsing into Sherlock's arms. "You have done far more than I had any right to expect."

Sherlock held him close and buried his nose and lips in the short hair, knowing that there _was_ nothing more that he could do to keep John safe; that whatever precautions he might take, once John had entered the arena it was beyond his control.

He just hoped that John wouldn't do anything stupid.

* * *

When they arrived back at the court, Lestrade and Angelo were already there, standing in the sand of the court arena. Sherlock cleared his throat to announce their arrival; the two turned and Angelo's face cleared in sudden understanding. Sherlock schooled his face into blankness. He would have to talk to the gladiator alone to impress on him the importance of how he wanted the relationship to appear to the public.

"Finally," Lestrade voiced. "We were beginning to worry."

Sherlock shrugged easily. "There was no need. John and I had business to take care of, and we were sufficiently distracted to take the route through the forum without thinking."

Lestrade looked from one to the other; Angelo simply smirked and looked away. "Right," he said. "Well, the other gladiators are at lunch, so if you are finished, my Lord…"

Reluctantly, Sherlock patted John on the arm. "I shall see you tomorrow," he said, with forced cheerfulness.

John nodded. "Thank you, my Lord," he repeated, smiling weakly. "You have done so much today."

Sherlock smiled back. "As have you."

He and Angelo walked away; Lestrade, however, rounded on Sherlock with a slight frown on his face. "You know you are welcome in the gladiators' mess. You have joined us before."

"There is something else I wish to do this afternoon," Sherlock admitted, smiling at his lanista. "But thank you for the invitation."

Lestrade frowned harder. "Where are you going?"

Sherlock allowed himself to grimace. "The Circus Maximus," he admitted.

* * *

Tonga was crouched in a corner of the dank cage under the Circus, head resting on his knees, scarred feet wriggling uncomfortably. Sherlock rested his arm against the bars of the cage and watched him for a while, disgust permeating his stomach and tainting the back of his tongue. "Do you know what is to happen to you?" he asked finally in fluid Greek.

The man's head snapped up and his lips immediately curled into a snarl. " _You_ know," he replied, his deep voice nothing more than a growl. "It was _you_ who decided."

"I let John Watson decide," Sherlock told him. "The man whose wife you murdered. He wants to kill you himself."

Tonga's snarl flattened somewhat into a grotesque smile. "I make him very angry."

Sherlock snorted disgustedly. "I cannot imagine why," he said dryly. "And yet despite everything that you have done, he still does not wish to face you unarmed. He wants a fair fight."

"John Watson is an honourable man," the murderer said, inclining his head slightly.

" _I_ ," Sherlock pronounced carefully, "am not. The Saturnalia games are five days away. You will be placed in that arena with only your hands, and then you will die."

The criminal's smile widened. "I am good with my hands," he bragged calmly. "And the manner of my death is not ultimately your decision."

Sherlock lifted a doubtful eyebrow. "I am the Emperor," he told the man again.

"But not the executioner," he was reminded. Sherlock blinked; he tried not to show how quickly the other man had hit the mark, but the big man clambered smoothly to his feet anyway until he was standing right in front of Sherlock, only the thick bars of the cage between them. "Once the two of us are in that arena there will be nothing that you can do. And if your John Watson decides that he wants to kill me with his bare hands… well then."

Sherlock's fists clenched, itching to bury themselves in the other man's gut. If John could not make the safe decision then perhaps Sherlock could make it for him – the guards were only a shout away, he could kill Tonga himself if he wanted to.

"Well then indeed," he replied instead, spitting the words out violently as though he could not bear to stomach them. Sherlock took a deep breath and walked away.

He _trusted_ John. He was making the danger into far more than it really was. He had _seen_ John fight, he knew his lover was skilled. Perhaps the best he had ever seen. John could handle it, safely and sensibly.

Couldn't he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Mr_CSI, who wasn't expecting about half of this chapter. Similar-sized thanks to Alex, my Latin tutor, for hearing that I was writing something set in ancient Rome and immediately teaching me the Latin for 'penis' and 'blowjob', as though it was read that I would need them. One day I will use them, I promise.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock brought up the Saturnalia executions every moment they were together, whether alone or in company. John wished he would leave it alone and trust him to do the right thing.

He had half a mind to bring up how little his Emperor seemed to trust him. He had promised to be Sherlock's _lover_ , had told him so many times that he _wanted_ to be Sherlock's lover. And yet the man still interpreted his every move as John wanting to get out, to stop whatever 'arrangement' they had once had. He had trusted John to tie him to the bed and take care of him, but he did not trust him to stay with him, and he certainly did not appear to trust him with his own life.

John mentioned this last point to Sherlock when he pleaded John to be sensible for the third time that morning. "Sherlock, you do not have to be responsible for my safety," he had said. "Trust _me_ to take care of my own life."

Sherlock had buried his face in John's chest until John could feel his eyelashes fluttering against his sternum. "I _want_ to be responsible for it," he had responded shyly. "I want to be the one who takes care of you."

And yet, in this one thing, John would far rather he did not. He had stopped himself from snapping harshly at his lover by asking himself how he would feel were it Sherlock in his place, and yet the circumstances were not the same. Though he had not seen Sherlock actually wield the broad blade he strapped to his hip when they went out at night, he was not a fighter, he was the _Emperor_ , and John was right to need to protect him. But Sherlock could not understand what his hulking opponent made him feel, how badly he needed to _defeat_ him, not simply execute him.

For a while he had thought that the tall ruler would attempt to limit the weapons that he sent John into the arena with, or send someone else out with him in case the fight began to look evenly-matched. But it was with his two short blades in hand that John stood underneath the cages, frowning out at the convicted prisoners attempting to outrun the three unfamiliar gladiators in the Circus arena, the sweat from a previous contest cooling on his chest.

"Nervous?"

Angelo had come up to stand behind him, tall and broad and generally imposing. John smiled at him. "What have I got to be nervous about?" he asked, but his heart wasn't in it and he knew it showed.

The bigger man rolled his eyes slightly. "I cannot imagine how I would feel knowing that something that was such a big part of my life was almost over. Without the need for revenge so many things will be possible for you."

John had almost expected another reprimand for his desire to face Tonga fairly, so the unexpected answer made him smile in surprise. "I suppose. There will be other things I can direct my attention to."

As though he knew _exactly_ what other things John was thinking of, Angelo smirked briefly. "His Excellency must love you very much to have done this for you," he said softly, his face sobering.

The phrase _how do you know_ almost slipped out of his mouth, but John caught it just in time. He supposed that he and Sherlock had not been particularly careful to hide their relationship from Angelo. "It was an… agreement we had," he admitted. "He wanted my company, my…" John blushed, but Angelo merely nodded with a dismissive wave of his hand that plainly said he did not want _any_ kind of detail. "And he worked out the thing that I wanted most and offered it to me in return, so that I could not refuse him."

"He does that," Angelo agreed. "He likes to be certain of people's loyalty, even when he does not have such demands as he made of you. I would have been executed if he had not stepped in to speak for me." John raised a curious eyebrow; he had never asked how Angelo, who had plainly been born and raised in Rome and even used language seldom heard away from the Palatine Hill, had come to be a gladiator. The big man smiled. "I used to work in the court kitchens," he expanded. "I cooked for the Emperor for a while. Sometimes I miss it." John was working very hard at keeping his jaw from dropping; the _Emperor_ 's own cook was not a position he would ever have guessed well-built, slightly thuggish Angelo had once held. "One of the woman of the kitchens was killed, and I was the person who was supposed to be in the kitchen that night, so I was blamed for the murder and sentenced to be executed. His Excellency was only twenty-one, but he stepped in – described how the marks on her neck indicated that she had been killed by a woman, though Minerva knows how he worked that out. So they amended my sentence and I ended up here."

John nodded thoughtfully. "I never knew you were a cook," he said.

Angelo shrugged. "In another life. But the fact remains that every gladiator in the Emperor's court owes his life to Sherlock Holmes. That is what he does – he gives us something incredible so that we will want to please him because of who he is as a person, not as a ruler."

_The Emperor may be who I am, John, but I do not wish it to be seen as what I am._ John smiled as he recalled the man's previous words. "And yet he does not see himself as a good person," he remarked.

"History will most likely forget him," the bigger man said bluntly. "But we will not."

John smiled absently, staring through the bars of the cage once more. Angelo let him stare for a while; at first John thought he would leave, then the bigger man clamped a hand amiably on his shoulder. "It is important to him that you do this one thing his way," Angelo said quietly. When John looked up at him his face was genuinely concerned. " _Very_ important."

He knew it was, but he shook his head helplessly. It was important to him, too. "I cannot," he said, his voice catching on the long vowel. Angelo smiled sympathetically.

Outside, the last of the standing criminals – bandits, John remembered, who had been brave enough to venture inside the city's boundaries – fell to his knees, and one of the city gladiators quickly stepped up behind him and cut his throat. The crowd exploded. John took a deep breath. "He knows I cannot," he finished, but he didn't think Angelo heard. The big gladiator slapped him hard on the back.

"They will scream for you next," he said brightly. His hand rested on John's back for a heartbeat longer than necessary. "If you are _sensible_."

John smiled back up at him, keeping his face carefully steady so that his smile did not tremble. "I am always sensible."

* * *

It was only John's second appearance in the Circus arena, but the people remembered him.

Someone had evidently announced him, because the arena had erupted into noise that very clearly split into male and female, a solid wave of noise that threatened to knock him off his feet. A cotton handkerchief floated from the sands and landed on his sandal; it caught when John lifted his foot to shrug it off and he had to bend and tug it free. It had been embroidered with a blue flower in one corner – John knew nothing of flowers, but it looked similar to the ones Mary had used to pick and put in pots around the house. There had been one beside the bed the day she had miscarried their child.

The cages at the other end of the arena rattled and John caught a glimpse of a hulking figure waiting, its head bowed. He placed a reverent kiss to the blue flower on the handkerchief, and then dropped it in the sand beside him and drew his swords, thrusting them into the air amidst the cheers.

Sherlock was frowning. John could see it from the arena; not the precise expression, not from this distance, but the way he was sitting close to the edge of the box and the awkward slump of his body betrayed him. The pinched, worried expression on his angular face was very easy to picture. John wanted to go up there and kiss it off his face, but there were things he had to do first.

The cage door at the opposite side of the arena rattled again. John, swords still held aloft, turned back to the box where the Emperor sat. He could just make out the shape of Lestrade and the tall, thin silhouette of Mycroft Holmes on either side of him. He smiled reassuringly. He knew Sherlock couldn't see the smile, but if he could read his lover's expression in the way he was holding his body he knew Sherlock's sharp eyes wouldn't miss the sentiment in his.

Then he bowed to the Emperor, turned a full circle for the crowd, and watched the ebony-skinned killer lope easily out of the cage and into the arena.

They had left Tonga's hands bound together with thin rope; John had been there when Sherlock had impressed upon the men guarding him that he was dangerous and not to take any chances. He appreciated the Emperor's unwillingness to let the guards get hurt – and did not doubt that Tonga would have hurt them – but how did Sherlock expect him to execute the man with his hands tied? The Saturnalia games were meant to be a spectacle. The murder of a man who didn't even have the use of his hands was not entertainment.

John stood impassively and watched until his wife's murderer was two feet from him, their eyes locked together. Tonga's thick, barbarian lips curled into a familiar sneer. He didn't try to speak. John took one step forward and sliced the rope with his left hand, eyes still fixed on the dark ones in front of him, watching the slight flinch as his sword nicked the man's wrist, doubtless drawing a tiny trail of blood. He smiled. Then he took three steps backwards.

The crowd fell silent; John imagined they were all holding their breath. He knew Sherlock certainly would be. For the space of three careful breaths, he contemplated not disappointing him.

The sword from John's left hand sank neatly into the sand between the convict's legs. The big man looked at him for another heartbeat before he bent to pick it up. He didn't seem surprised at the move.

John raised his remaining weapon between his eyes, inclining his head politely at the other man, and then flicked it off to the side and bent his back slightly in a tiny bow. He wasn't sure whether he expected Tonga to return the salute until he did, that confident half-smile still on his face.

Tonga lunged for him. John sidestepped the thrust as easily as he would avoid a charging bull. The crowd was cheering again; he registered this as though it was happening to someone else. The lunge had been clumsy, and he knew that his opponent was not a clumsy fighter. He stood still, trying to look calm and careless rather than exceedingly watchful and wary.

"Worried?" the man asked him.

John smiled coolly. "Not particularly."

He snapped forwards for a cut at the big man's shoulder, but he was blocked easily; they parried for a while, back and forth just like a training exercise gone wrong. There was a breeze sweeping down the tiers of the arena and making the hairs on John's back stand up. He growled and dived forwards, sliding his sword up to cut through the other man's belly only to find his other sword already in the way, their bodies close together, the convict's breath blowing hotly against his cheek. "You should be," the man said, and without warning shoved John so hard that he staggered backwards.

He wanted to look up to the Emperor's box, to see whether Sherlock was angry, but he knew that Tonga would jump at the slightest diversion. He knew that he _could_ defeat the other man, but the promise of a difficult fight was exhilarating and he couldn't let his attention stray.

His next jab at the man's chest was deflected quickly and John had to dart out of the way of a smooth strike to his thigh – the one that had been injured the last time that he and Tonga had fought. It still ached slightly when he woke up in the mornings, but he'd been training as normal since it had stopped opening and bleeding when he lunged, so Lestrade had judged him fit to compete in the Saturnalia festival and they had left it at that.

"She was pretty, your wife," Tonga commented, smirking as he blocked a cut to the stomach.

John ignored him. So he tried again. "She screamed when I cut open her stomach. It is incredible, how quickly people stop being brave when you hurt them."

The next swing at the man's own stomach landed so hard that it knocked the block right out of the way and drew a long line up his side that quickly filled in with blood. John raised an eyebrow at his opponent as he gasped slightly. Had the block not been there, the strike would have been serious, but as it was it was only a distraction. The screams of the crowd swelled around him. "Incredible," John repeated, trying to smile. His face was trembling with anger.

Tonga grinned horribly. They rested for a moment, John courteously allowing his opponent a moment to put the stinging pain of the cut out of his mind. He casually swung his blade around behind him so that Tonga could not see it and flexed his wrist. When the bigger man lunged, he flicked the sword out and slapped his thigh with the flat, twisting it as he drew away and leaving another long, shallow cut across his dark calf. Tonga growled, but the pain had made him hesitate slightly in his lunge for John's neck and John moved his head out of the firing line and blocked the sweep easily.

Then they were back into it, the smooth rhythm of back-and-forth, punishingly fast. John barely blinked for fear that he would miss a jab or a cut, fail to block one move that might incapacitate him just enough.

"She _was_ brave, though, your wife. She spat in my face when I threatened her. I do not think that she believed me – your friend Jonathan Small did not intend to hurt her, you see. So I cut her open, and _then_ she believed."

John wasn't sure how Tonga could focus on speaking _and_ their increasingly intense dance of strikes and blocks and parries and thrusts, but he counted himself lucky not to be paying attention to what was being said. The general gist was enough to increase the desire to _finish_ the man until it was a burning desperation that threatened to shatter his control. "She had a name," he said instead, amazed at the way the words almost sounded calm, even through teeth clenched so tightly that his jaw ached.

Tonga curled his lips into a smile even as he sidestepped a balletic lunge from John's sword. "I never learned it," he replied. "Perhaps if I had fucked her, it would have mattered, but there was not time."

John snarled and sprang forwards again, but Tonga was expecting it; he spun to avoid the strike and plunged his bare foot into the healing wound on John's thigh.

John screamed. Pain seared through his leg and he almost fell, the muscles twitching and spasming. Tonga's deep laugh rang in his ears as he staggered; he was showing the man his back, he couldn't stand up properly, couldn't turn around, couldn't do anything to protect himself. He didn't want to _wait_ for the cut to the back that would surely be his undoing, but he didn't seem to have a choice. The most he could do was straighten his back and whimper as he straightened his leg.

But Tonga waited. Just as John had after the cut to his opponent's side, he waited for John to recover himself slightly, still laughing, perhaps believing John to have been completely incapacitated.

Somehow, when they had spun and he had almost fallen, John had ended up facing the Emperor's box. Sherlock was standing up, one hand in front of his mouth, the other held behind him, Lestrade's tanned fingers wrapped around his wrist as though to stop him from jumping out of the box and into the crowd.

Sherlock hadn't wanted him to do this. If Tonga defeated him how would it look for him? And what would he think of John?

He turned around, rolling his shoulders as though resetting himself, his eyes darting over every inch of his opponent's body. Tonga was resting a great deal of his weight on his back leg. He was overconfident, it was written in the way he was holding his sword, loose in his hand, behind his body rather than defending it. He didn't think John was going to attack him. But he would be prepared if he did.

John darted forwards, crushing his lower lip between his teeth as his leg screamed at him, his sword aiming for Tonga's neck. Sure enough, the moment he had begun to move, the bigger man had stepped forwards and to the side, his body shifting smoothly out of the way of the strike and his own sword corkscrewing towards the soft flesh of John's belly.

He grabbed Tonga's huge hand at the base of the sword and tugged him sharply forwards, unbalancing him, stepping to the side so that the sword travelled under his arm and bringing his own blade down to plunge into the depths of abdominal muscle and catch there until momentum snatched them apart and Tonga hit the sand so hard the arena shook under John's feet.

Blood spurted dramatically from the stomach wound; John smirked at the frenzied screams from the crowd. It would have taken them by surprise, the exchange so quick that even _he_ could barely believe it had worked.

Tonga was struggling to get up; John stepped closer and kicked the short sword out of his hand, possibly breaking a few fingers in the process. He stopped the wriggling efforts with the bite of the blade against the murderer's throat.

"Her name was Mary," he growled, jabbing the sword just hard enough to draw blood and watch the dark eyes widen in the sudden fear of the man who knows he has lost. "And she was my entire world."

He placed one foot on Tonga's huge chest, bent, and slashed his throat open with a slightly over-dramatic sweep of the sword.

The crowds of the Circus Maximus had always reminded John of wild animals. As soon as they saw blood they were absolutely uncontrollable. He had never allowed Mary to go, always fearing that someone would fall upon her, mad with bloodlust. Distantly, he climbed off her killer and wiped his sword on the dead man's loincloth.

Two burly attendants in undyed short togas dragged Tonga's body away by the legs, leaving a smear of red in the sand. John watched them go, drowning in the cheers from all sides. When he looked back up at the Emperor's box, his hands still trembling slightly, Sherlock was still standing up at the edge of the box, leaning out over the stands. From this distance, John could not read his expression.

He bent to pick up the sword he had wrested from his wife's murderer, and then sank into a bow to the Emperor and left the arena. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock, too, make his exit.

They caught up to each other just outside the walls, in the shadow of the arched entranceway. A few people who had not been able to find seats inside the arena milled around outside, but none of them noticed the Emperor as he stopped, breathless, two feet from John. Unwilling to speak, they stared at each other. Sherlock didn't _look_ as though he were about to have John punished for disobeying him. "I am sorry," John said anyway, when the tension of the silence grew too heavy to maintain.

Sherlock frowned. "I ought to be angry," he said, but his voice shook.

"I expected that you would be," John admitted. "I wanted to obey you, but this was… his _hands_ were tied. And had he expected that I would not fight fairly, he would have attacked me the moment I freed them."

The Emperor watched him for a moment before answering. "Had you died, I never would have forgiven you," he said quietly. "But I… I _do_ trust you, John."

Silence settled between them again as John smiled gratefully. Sherlock looked as though there were words stuck in his throat and he could not cough hard enough to dislodge them. It looked rather painful. John took a deep breath – there was something that he, too, ought to have said several days ago. He cleared his own throat, gently, wondering if what came out of it would be right.

"I love you," he said in a rush.

It wasn't quite what he had intended, but it was true, so he left it there.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to have this up far sooner, considering how much of it was written the same day as the last chapter was posted, but the damn thing just wouldn't finish and I got really frustrated by it. Oh, and I Potterlocked by accident. Thanks to [chocolate fish](http://www.fanfiction.net/u/1943562/chocolate-fish) for picking me up off the floor with this and [SplendidDust](http://www.fanfiction.net/u/4227981/SplendidDust) for sitting beside me while I lay there – I'm not sure you know how much it means to me just to have someone else in the same room.

" _I love you_ ," John said quickly, as though the words would stick in his throat if he didn't get them out fast enough.

Sherlock felt his mouth fall open. He had thought that those words may have been on John's lips in the alleyway after they had arrested Tonga, but he hadn't thought that John would say them plainly like this, not clouded by arousal and with a determined expression on his face.

The gladiator looked as though he was expecting a reply, but Sherlock couldn't muster one. He was entirely out of words; in reply to the slightly worried frown developing on John's delightful face he tried to push some out regardless. "I… you…"

"I do," John insisted, as though Sherlock had tried to deny it. "Really, absolutely, _completely_ , I love you. I am sorry it has taken me so long to realise it."

There were things one was expected to say at a time like this, but Sherlock couldn't remember any of them. He probably ought not to be so shocked. John's love was something he had been trying so hard to earn that he had almost talked himself out of believing he could actually _have_ it. He stepped forwards and folded John into a clumsy hug instead, fitting John's chin against his sternum and burying his nose in the short, clean-smelling hair. "Do not be sorry," he murmured into it. "I was not expecting you to say it at all."

John shook his head stubbornly, his nose bumping Sherlock's clavicle. "Nor was I," he admitted. "After Mary died I never thought I would want to say _I love you_ again. Or perhaps I would have recognised the feeling sooner." His arms clutched Sherlock tightly, _so_ tightly, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to stay in this attitude forever. "I love you," John repeated again. Sherlock could feel the words against the skin of his chest, brushing over his heart. "Sherlock, I love you so much."

Sherlock smiled so hard his cheeks burned with the effort. "I love you, too," he said. He wanted to find a way to convey the _desperation_ of the emotion, the overwhelming relief of knowing that he didn't have to hope anymore that was making his knees weak, the way he had tried so hard not to _let_ himself hope in the first place that it seemed even more incredible that John could _love_ him the way he wanted him to, but there wasn't one, so he squeezed John until his arms ached and thought from the way John was squeezing him back that perhaps it was enough.

He could feel the eyes of the few people still in the street on the two of them. "People are watching us," he said softly into John's hair. "I want… there are things I wish to say, but not in front of others."

The older gladiator gently disentangled himself from the hug in order to frown at him. "I do not think that we should mind them," he said slowly.

He raised an eyebrow in surprise. The last time they had found themselves in public John had refused the gestures of affection that Sherlock offered him until they were out of the sight of people. "I wish to be close to you for the rest of my life, Sherlock, and I do not think that it is possible to keep such a personal secret for so long – people will see me around the court and they will know. When I looked at it like that, as something that _would_ happen, not as something that I should attempt to prevent, it struck me that it would not seem so strange to them. I am a gladiator, technically I already belong to you. They already _know_ I am yours."

Sherlock's breath caught. "Say that again," he pleaded.

John smiled. "I am yours," he repeated, his hand bumping Sherlock's between them, fingers brushing together. "And you are mine."

He sounded so sure, so confident. "Would it be hypocritical of me to ask why?" he said, smiling because he knew the answer. John laughed shortly.

"Yes," he replied easily. "Emotions are not so clearly defined by _why_." Sherlock smiled resignedly. When they had first met, John had seemed so dependent on his love for Mary. It had been the driving force behind everything that he did: it was why he had joined the gladiators, why he respected Sherlock, why he had agreed to come into his bed and stay there indefinitely. Surely there must have been some revelation, something Sherlock had done to make him stray so far from that path as to fall in love with someone else.

John was fiddling with the hilt of the sword tucked against his left hip. "I simply feel as though you and I _fit,_ " he said finally, looking uncertainly up at Sherlock. "Within two days of meeting you I felt as comfortable in your company as I do with people I have known for decades. Now, I feel as though I have known you all my life, and yet there is so much about you that I want to _spend_ all my life finding out. You must understand what I mean," he said slowly, frowning hesitantly at him. "You _must_ feel the same, surely?"

Sherlock nodded. "If I were forced to give a reason for loving you, that would be it. Because I admired you for your style in the arena before I met you, and then after I did you turned out to be everything I have ever wanted in a person, all the habits and vices and beliefs that either complimented or contradicted my own so _perfectly_ it was like I had been waiting for you my entire life without knowing."

" _Yes!_ " John agreed. "And _that_ is why I did not recognise it earlier. Because I have been in love before, but not like this. Mary and I grew up together, we _had_ known each other all our lives. We always knew that we would marry, and I believe that we… _shaped_ each other, and ourselves, into the perfect person for each other. We loved each other because we had always loved each other. I grew up thinking of her as someone I needed to cherish, to provide for and care for and have a family with one day – and that does not _cheapen_ what we had together, but it makes _this_ even more extraordinary. Mary's and my love was something that we made ourselves, but I feel as though you and I were _meant_ to love one another – as though the _gods_ made us for each other."

He wanted to kiss the stocky warrior more than anything; more than he cared about what the few people whose eyes he could still feel. With an exultant sigh, Sherlock swarmed forwards, pinning John against the column they had leaned against and pressing their mouths together, pushing easily past John's lips and invading his mouth with his tongue, finding his hands and pinning them either side of his head with their fingers intertwined. John's lips curled into an open-mouthed smile underneath his as they kissed.

There was something new about the kiss, he thought, a joy that had not been there previously. A weight that had been lifted from his shoulders now that he _knew_ that John returned his feelings, that John would never leave him, that he could have this forever if he wanted it.

_If_ he wanted it. What he wanted was to divest his lover of the leather skirt he was wearing and take him, to lick the taste of sweat and leather from every inch of his skin. And he _could_ , because John loved him, because John wanted it too.

Perhaps not right outside the Circus Maximus, though, he reasoned. With one last suckling press of lips and tongues, he withdrew his mouth from John's and rested their foreheads together, blowing a quiet laugh against his cheek. John chuckled back.

Sherlock caught the eye of a woman standing thirty feet away from them in the square, a child clinging to her hand, and beamed at her. She gave a long, lingering look up and down both of their bodies, smiled back at him, and then led her child out of the way. He wondered what she thought of them. Whether she saw them as lovers, or whether his possessive lunge for John had made her think of them as master and slave.

He was still treating John as though he commanded him – John had commented on that once. It felt like so long ago, but it was really only a matter of weeks. And it had been true then, Sherlock supposed; he had treated John as though he were some kind of ancient, lascivious Greek pottery because he had been trying so hard to avoid the fact that he _owned_ John, that John _had_ to do what he asked whether he wanted to or not. Now, the idea of pinning him down and _taking_ what he wanted made his blood sing through his body. The idea of _acting_ like he owned John had, somewhere along the way, become immensely appealing. But it was _different_.

It was different because the way in which he owned John now was different. _I am yours_ , John had said. _And you are mine._ Sherlock was proud of owning John like this.

"I am supposed to be fighting in the next round," John murmured.

Sherlock didn't let him go, not releasing his fingers or removing his weight from pinning John's stocky body to the column. "I wish you would not," he said softly, kissing his jaw hard enough to turn his head. "I wish there was a way I could give you the excitement of the arena without taking the risk of losing you."

John's head snapped back around in order to catch Sherlock's lips with his own. "I am infinitely grateful that you allow me this, Sherlock," he said.

After that, Sherlock had to let him go.

* * *

John yawned, stretched, and curled into Sherlock's side, his naked chest warm against him. "Juno, I wish I could stay here forever."

Sherlock smiled and kissed him, returning the stretch and rejoicing in the burn of well-used muscles. They had fallen on the bed the moment they walked in the door after the games were over, both so inflamed that a moment's desperate rutting and grunted endearments had finished them and they had fallen asleep before John had had a chance to do anything more than roll off him. It had worked in their favour, though; Sherlock had woken hours later to John's delighted giggle, his hand already fixed around the gladiator's erection. The second time had been slow, luxurious, _healing_. "You can stay here tonight, at least," he said practically, "but then you must leave until training is over and you can come back."

The gladiator hummed, rolling himself until he was splayed between Sherlock's legs, resting his chin on Sherlock's chest, underneath his folded arms. "What about when I am not training, but you are elsewhere?"

He considered it for the barest of seconds. "This room is my sanctuary. I would like it to be yours, too." He ran his fingers over John's scalp, feeling his hair part under them.

John closed his eyes lazily and tilted his head into Sherlock's hands. "It already is," he said gently. "Some of my most cherished memories took place in this room." He moved his head down and took a big, luxurious sniff of the sheets. "It smells like you. This room is so obviously _your_ room that I will always feel safe here."

Sherlock trapped him between his knees and rolled until John was on his back and Sherlock could slide down his body and press their lips together languidly. "Perhaps you should move your belongings here," he suggested. "I am sure Lestrade will not mind."

"You are the Emperor," John reminded him, grabbing his rear and grinding them together. "It does not matter whether he _minds_." Sherlock raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement, allowing John to roll them back over, their feet dangling off the edge of the bed. The dimachaerus kissed him, briefly, then knelt up over him with a bright grin. "We should go now." He kissed Sherlock's spent cock before climbing off him and holding out a hand.

He made such a pretty picture like this. Sherlock grinned back and grabbed his hand. "Perhaps we should dress first," he suggested wryly.

John shrugged. "Perhaps," he conceded. "Perhaps we should go without loincloths. It would make it easier for me to take you in my old bedchamber."

"With all the other gladiators watching through the cage wall?" Sherlock asked, picturing the scene with some amusement. He had always thought it an invasion of privacy to house the gladiators beneath the arena in a sort of upmarket version of the cages beneath the Circus where they housed the criminals, but that was what they expected and Lestrade had always maintained that it would unnerve them to be given proper quarters. "John, I had no idea –"

His lover pushed him, chuckling. "It is easy to clear those cages of everything but the smell of sweat and leather." John's smirk was knowing. "I know that you have thought of it."

Sherlock couldn't deny it. Didn't _want_ to deny it, if John was so willing to accommodate it. "My fantasies did not include Angelo and Gregson watching us," he said, not bothering to hide how hot his cheeks had become. If he had not been so attracted to the trappings of the arena then the two of them would not be here, it wasn't as though John would hold anything against him. "Inform the man outside that we are leaving, would you – to _pack_ , John, I promise nothing else."

Angelo occupied the cell beside the one that had been John's; he grinned as the two of them approached. "Pleasure to see you here, my Lord," he greeted cheerfully. "And you, John – the amount we see you, it is as if you no longer keep quarters here."

John offered him a bright smile. "That is the idea," he replied cheerfully. "I intend to keep the room, and leave the bulk of my equipment to make it easier to train, but the majority of my clothing is coming with me when I leave this afternoon."

The taller gladiator grinned. "Off to a better place, no doubt," he said wryly, his eyes on Sherlock. "Would you like help?" His eyes wandered between the two of them, the same wry grin toying with his mouth. "Or privacy?"

Sherlock couldn't help but glance at John, whose smile hadn't faltered. "Could you find Lestrade, please, Angelo, and inform him of our intentions?"

He wasn't sure whether Angelo's grin made him proud that John was so comfortable with what they were, or uncomfortable that his desires were so obvious to an outsider, that someone he respected knew exactly what he hoped would happen right next to the room where he slept. "With pleasure, my Lord."

John took his hand and yanked him into his former bedchamber, pressing him up against the bars of the cage and kissing him. "Would you want me in gladiatorial dress, _my Lord_? _"_ he whispered, smiling gently, the tiny scratch of stubble from where he had not shaved that morning rubbing against Sherlock's jaw.

Sherlock pushed him away, chuckling. "We cannot, John," he said with more than a hint of reluctance. "I sent Angelo away _briefly_. He and Lestrade will be back very soon. I cannot afford to put myself in a situation where I cannot look my lanista in the eye."

The stocky warrior pouted. "You could have sent them away for longer, Sherlock," he said pettily. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at him; John snorted and shook his head. "Perhaps I share your fantasy," he admitted, looking up at Sherlock through lowered lashes. "I must admit the idea of taking pristine, perfect _you_ and covering you in the smell and surroundings of gladiator life, reducing you to sweat and leather and incoherence – it has a certain appeal."

It certainly did sound appealing. Sherlock shifted against the bars of the cage, resisting the urge to reach down and adjust himself in his loincloth. "Kiss me," he pleaded. "Just kiss me." It wasn't enough, but he could not ask for more – having Lestrade walk in on them would be the most mortifying thing Sherlock could imagine. And what if it wasn't just Lestrade?

The kiss was languid, commanding but slow; Sherlock could feel John's hands clenching into fists in the front of his toga. "Another time," he promised between kisses. "We will come back, another time."

John sighed into his cheek and took a step away. "I probably ought to do some packing, then," he said resignedly. "Would you get a bag from the supply room for me?" Sherlock frowned in mock astonishment; the dimachaerus laughed. "If it please you, Your Excellency."

Sherlock went to spin out of John's room, laughing, only to narrowly avoid tripping over Lestrade coming in the other direction. "Oh! My Lord," the lanista gasped. Sherlock frowned. He had the look of a man so deep in troubling thoughts he had ceased to pay attention to his surroundings.

"Is everything all right, Lestrade?" he asked gently, placing a steadying hand on his friend's arm.

Lestrade smiled wanly at him. "Yes. Well. I was coming to see whether John knew where you were. I wish to speak to you alone, my Lord, there is something I would ask of you."

John popped his head out of the door. "Everything all right, Greg? Did Angelo find you?"

"What? No – I'm fine," the stocky man replied, his smile this time looking slightly manic. Sherlock tried not to show any kind of alarm at his disarray. "Careful you do not take too many of your belongings, John, or the others will begin to fight over the room."

The dimachaerus grinned, looking delighted at the prospect. Sherlock gently excused them both and led Lestrade back out into the empty arena to sit on the tiers. "Are you certain you are all right?" he asked. "I have never seen you looking so flustered."

Lestrade took a few deep breaths, as though to steel himself. "I… have an unorthodox request, my Lord," he said after a moment.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Unorthodox," he repeated slowly.

He let the other man stew for a moment longer. "I can barely believe that this is…" Lestrade tried finally. "I wish to… I want to retire."

Sherlock blinked at him. _Retire_. Quite apart from the fact that lanistae did not simply _resign,_ Lestrade had been a principal part of his life for so long, first as his means to freedom – a young gladiator that his father had allowed to take him places and keep him out from underfoot – and then as his lanista, the expert on the thing that he loved the most. The man who had found him John. What would he do, if not his job? Did he want to leave the court, leave _Sherlock_?

"And do what?" he asked, unable to keep the surprise from his voice or his face.

Lestrade smiled. "I have had an… interesting offer of occupation," he said slowly. "Your brother approached me after training yesterday."

Something in Sherlock's mind clicked. The way Mycroft would flush when he called him _jealous_ of his relationship with John, the way his eyes would dart away as though looking for someone specific. The way he had always seemed so grumpy when Sherlock came back from the Circus full of _Lestrade says_ and _Lestrade wants_ after a public bout. He had known of his brother's attraction to the lanista when he was barely a man, but he had thought that the fire of lust had largely died out over the many years of denial. "Oh," he said simply. Lestrade nodded. "And that is what you want?"

The silver-haired warrior grinned brightly. "I have wanted it for _years_ ," he confessed. "And I would look at him, sometimes, and catch him looking at me and _know_ that he wanted the same thing. We did this… odd sort of dance for so long that it became a part of the routines of life, that I resigned myself to always wanting and never having. He did not seem to want to acknowledge it, to act on it, and I could not do so without appearing impudent, without breaking _so_ many laws, so I put it to the back of my mind and left it there. And then… well, you and John made it work, made it look so _easy_ , that I started to think that perhaps it _was_ possible for two people as different as Mycroft and I to have a true relationship." Lestrade shrugged, beaming. "Apparently he thought the same thing."

Sherlock quirked a reluctant smile. Much as he disliked his brother, he could not deny anyone the opportunity to have what he and John had discovered. "You are my oldest friend, Lestrade," he said softly. "I want you to be happy."

Lestrade smiled, wide and so happy that Sherlock couldn't help but smile back. "Thank you, Sherlock."

He sighed, stretching out his legs and looking briskly out around the arena. "I suppose I must find myself a new lanista," he said forlornly, already dreading the thought of having to promote someone like Dimmock. He would take one of his gladiators, just as Lestrade had come from the court arena, and at least know that he would get along with them.

The silver-haired warrior coughed lightly. "If I might make a suggestion as to my replacement, my Lord?" he asked, frowning as though what he were about to say had weight beyond the surface.

"That would certainly make the job easier," Sherlock agreed warily. "I value your opinion a great deal, you know that."

Lestrade paused a moment longer, frowning at the shadow of a cloud crawling across the sand of the arena. "John Watson's military experience gives him a thorough knowledge of almost all the weapons that we use in the arena, and training him in the style of a _retiarius_ would be a matter of weeks – weeks which I intend to give, I would never simply walk away from the arena. His anatomical knowledge beautifully complements the fighter's _instinct_ that he has. You have seen it, my Lord – he understands the art of the arena, understands what move his opponent will make before they make it and how to counter it. That is something that very few fighters truly have, and I believe it makes up for his comparative lack of experience in the arena."

Sherlock considered the idea, surprised. "John?" he repeated. Lestrade looked at him steadily. "I see where you are coming from. He fights like no-one I have ever seen, it was what caught my eye about him. But… he is the newest gladiator to the arena."

"And the best," Lestrade argued. "If he can teach the others how to see their opponents as he does, they will all become far better fighters, and they know it. I believe that John would make an excellent lanista." He hesitated for a moment, then cleared his throat softly. "And it would be safer for him."

Sherlock remembered being relieved when his father had offered Lestrade the position of lanista. Relieved that he did not have to worry that each time he saw his only friend it would be the last time. Could he apply the same thinking to John? "Would it be… exciting enough for him?" he asked slowly, feeling a tendril of hope begin to uncoil in his stomach.

Lestrade smiled tightly. "You would have to ask him," he said, "but I can assure you it is plenty exciting, my Lord. Should he wish it, very little about his life would change." Lestrade occasionally joined in the weekly fights in the court arena, Sherlock knew – the only thing that really needed to change for John would be his inability to fight in the _really_ dangerous bouts at the Circus. And a whole new layer of responsibility, of course, one that John would relish. Sherlock could picture him planning new training exercises in the afternoons while Sherlock read over new suggestions from the senate. Could they have a life together, a proper one, a _long_ one, like this?

He nodded slowly. "I will speak to him about it," he agreed, unable to keep the smile off his face. "Thank you, Lestrade. Take care of my brother – and make certain that he takes care of _you_. I did not believe that anyone could make him less recalcitrant and obnoxious, but if anyone can…"

The newly-retired lanista grinned brightly. "Thank _you_ , my Lord," he replied, standing up with an exaggerated creaking of bones. "But I do not think that I will try. I happen to adore every recalcitrant, obnoxious bone in his body just as it is."

* * *

Sherlock did not bring up the subject until they had stowed John's clothing beside his own in the trunk at the foot of his bed and settled back onto the bed with a decanter of wine between them. A warm, glowing sensation was settling on Sherlock's stomach and John's fingers were carding through his hair, pulling and tugging in terrifically pleasant ways.

"What was wrong with Lestrade?" the gladiator asked finally, pressing circular patterns into Sherlock's scalp that made his eyes roll back into his head. "Or should I not ask?"

Sherlock grunted. For a moment that was all the noise he could make; John chuckled and lightened his touch. "Um," he said. "Oh. He wants to retire."

John's fingers stopped moving. "Retire?" he repeated. Sherlock noted that he didn't sound entirely surprised. He pushed his head into his lover's hands until the absent motions continued. "Did he say why?"

" _Oh_ , yes," he replied. "He is giving up his position as my lanista in order to become my brother's lover."

The dimachaerus giggled. "I _thought_ I saw a few glances between the two of them. Well, that is fantastic, is it not?" Sherlock made an affirming noise that was only a tiny bit sarcastic. He _did_ want the two of them to be happy – it was just difficult after so many years to suddenly endorse something that would make his brother happy. "Why can he not be both? It is not as though it is unusual to have both a lover and an occupation."

Sherlock shrugged. "I did not ask, but Mycroft abhors the games. And besides, Lestrade has been a gladiator all his life. Past time for a change, I should think." He sighed and shifted the wine in order to sit closer to John and lean against his chest.

John's hands shifted from his scalp to his neck. "So," he breathed into his hair. "You will need to find a new lanista."

"Actually, Lestrade made a suggestion," Sherlock told him. "And I agree with him."

He stilled. "Oh? Who did he recommend?" he asked. Sherlock thought that there was a note of something in his voice – was it trepidation, or jealousy? Did John _want_ to be offered the position, or not?

Sherlock pushed away from John's hands, twisting on the bed so that he could look him in the eyes. "You," he said seriously.

John swallowed thickly, staring at Sherlock with wide, disbelieving, even slightly mistrustful eyes. " _Me_? But I have the _least_ experience in the arena of the entire court!"

"But your time in the military gives you experience with, and knowledge of, a wider range of weapons than anyone else in the court," Sherlock countered, crossing his legs and placing his cup of wine back on the tray. "Lestrade believes that the only style of gladiatorial combat you do not have sufficient understanding of is the _retiarius_ , and that to instruct you in this would not take long. Anyone else in the court would be an expert in only one or two styles, and would struggle to train people in others. But it is more than that, John, you… _understand_ combat to a level that none of the others do."

The dimachaerus frowned at him, sitting up and rearranging his legs into a more serious position. Sherlock fidgeted uncontrollably. He had expected John to be more… _pleased._ Flattered, even, that Lestrade believed he could do this. "The first time I saw you fight you caught my attention immediately," he tried again. "The thing that attracts me to the arena, you see, is the subtlety in the mechanics of fighting. There is always a moment, with each gladiator – well, you know this, obviously – where you can read in their body exactly what move they are planning, minute twitches that show exactly when they will execute it. Despite the fact that it was your first appearance as an arenarius, you could already read your opponents' bodies as well as anyone I had ever seen. To have that skill as _instinct_ is enormously rare." John offered him his first tentatively flattered smile. "But it was not that which had me captivated, John, it was the fact that I could not see those signs in you."

He could still remember the blind, thrilling shock of the first time John had moved without warning, had driven an opponent halfway across the Circus arena without giving away the tiniest signal of what he was about to do. "You think and move so fast in the arena that even _I_ could not read your intentions before you carried them out. _That_ is what drew me to you, the first time I saw you fight."

John snickered. "Really? I thought it was the way I looked brandishing a sword and covered in sweat and blood," he countered in mock-surprise. Sherlock shrugged judiciously. That certainly had not _hindered_ the sudden surge of attraction he had felt.

"John, if you could train the others to fight even a little more like you, the court arena would become a far more interesting place," he finished firmly.

His lover smiled for a moment, but his sturdy face quickly fell back into a frown. "And, of course, it would stop me from fighting to the death in the Circus Maximus," he said, studying Sherlock's face closely.

Sherlock nodded slowly, careful to keep eye contact. "I am not about to deny that the notion has its own appeal," he admitted. John nodded, looking away. "I am _offering_ you the position, John, I am not forcing you to take it. I understand that it is a different form of excitement than the Circus and I do not wish to _deny_ you anything."

John looked up at him again. He did not smile, but the little frown between his eyes had softened. "How can you be so tolerant?" he asked softly. "If it were me – if _you_ were the one trying to risk your life every day, I would have tried to stop you by now."

He shook his head, smiling. "I do not think that you would," he said. "And besides, as I said – I have never seen anyone fight the way that you do. I console myself with the knowledge that you are _better_ than the others, and that it would take an extraordinarily lucky shot from any of them to do you serious harm." He reached up to John's face, cradling it with his fingers. "I could never stop you from doing something that makes you so _alive_."

The older man smiled at him, his blue eyes full of something warm and soft. "I love you," he said, taking Sherlock's hand away from his face and holding it in his own.

Sherlock's heart sank a little. He had intended the speech to _encourage_ John to take the position of lanista, but his last sentence hadn't quite managed it and _that_ was the part that had made John smile. "Well, I suppose if you are not interested yourself I could use your opinion on who else – _ah!_ "

John had lunged forward and knocked Sherlock onto his back, his head banging against the wooden bar holding the bed against the wall, and pressed two fingers against his lips to quiet him. "I did not say I was not interested," he growled, the threatening tone of voice somewhat negated by the smile that was still growing on his lips. Sherlock's hands found John's hips as the stocky gladiator straddled him, grinning now.

"Are you interested?" he asked, sitting up properly so that their chests were flush together, looking up a tiny increment into John's eyes.

He shrugged. It seemed careless, but the two of them both knew that it was anything but. "I wish to grow old with you," John said quietly. "I cannot do that if I am killed in the arena."

Sherlock pictured it, the two of them sitting on this same bed, their hair gone to grey and their skin to wrinkles with the weight of years spent together. His hands clenched on John's hips, bunching toga and skin between his fingers. "I love you," he gasped out, burying his face against the shorter man's chest, trying to hide the way his throat had closed and his eyes were prickling.

John kissed the top of his head, his arms coming up to cradle it to his chest. Sherlock could feel his smile through his curls. "I love you too," he murmured in response, enveloping Sherlock in warmth and the sound of his breathing. He closed his eyes and let the rest of the world fade away; John was safe, John loved him, John wanted to grow old with him, John would be _around_ to grow old with him. John was holding him and breathing in the smell of his hair and settling in, apparently, for the long haul.

"Well, I am relieved," Sherlock spoke lightly after his throat had cleared a little. "If you had turned me down I may have had to promote _Dimmock_."

A strangled noise of disgust escaped John's throat, tangling in Sherlock's hair. "Bacchus forbid," he said in mock-horror. "You would have to begin forcing your gladiators to choose your arena or death."

"And many of them would chose death," Sherlock agreed, unable to keep from smiling even though John would not see it.

The new lanista laughed, and Sherlock felt his heart would burst. "Come," John said brightly, kissing him again and clambering off him, picking up their two abandoned cups of wine and handing one to Sherlock, holding out his own in a salute. "To us. Until we are so old that we can barely see one another."

Sherlock smiled brilliantly, feeling his heart swell impossibly larger, feeling the time when he had believed that he did not have one vanish from his memory. "To us," he agreed, tapping their cups lightly together before letting the spiced fluid flow over his tongue, warm and full of sunshine. "To us."


	19. Epilogue

I can feel your eyes on me, you know. You are not here to watch _me_. I often feel that since I took the lanista position you barely know which weapons each of your gladiators favour.

_Do not be ridiculous. I have a retiarius, three Thraeces, two hoplomachi, a Samnite and two secutors, and the newcomer Moran has recently begun training as a velite – his technique with the spear has greatly improved since you taught him that feint three days ago. You misunderstand the reason that I watch you, John – the way that you teach them so humbly will never cease to amaze me._

And there I thought you were simply admiring my legs. So many of these men have been in the arena for _years_ longer than I have, I did not think that they would take kindly to me if I attempted to take control. I would rather advise them as a peer, and I believe that this has earned me their respect far more readily.

_The extent to which I underestimated you when we first met leaves me breathless sometimes. I hope the gladiators understand exactly what punishment awaits them if they enter the cages this afternoon._

I think they understand exactly _why_ as well, which I will admit to finding a touch embarrassing.

_Angelo, at least, has known we wished to do this since Lestrade resigned. If there was a simple way of arranging such a thing without our intentions being obvious, believe me I would have taken it. But even so, the temptation of having you like that far outweighs the embarrassment of all my gladiators knowing it. I trust them, in any case._

I have been trying not to look at you, but I still know the instant you rise from your seat in the stands – incidentally, it has been some weeks since I have seen Lestrade watching us train and I am taking that as a sign that his life is proceeding well – and leave the arena. I know where you are going. _Bacchus_ , the knowledge makes my fingers tingle.

_I spoke with Lestrade yesterday, he seemed intent on providing me with lewd tales from his new life, as though he had forgotten that the man he is describing is my brother. It is so quiet in the cages underneath the stands; I can barely hear the clash of sword and spear and trident. Occasionally I can hear you shout at one of them. The sound of your voice still makes me smile every time I hear you; you would not believe how much of a comfort it is to me to know that I can hear it anytime I want, that if I wake in the middle of the night I have only to roll over and you will be there, every time._

I am certain that you know exactly how difficult it is for me to concentrate on correcting ward positions when I know that you are waiting for me on the other side of the arena wall. Are you lying on my bed, sitting on my chair? No doubt you are thinking of me, of what I will do to you when I call an end to training and join you in my old bedchamber. The sight of you flushed red with desire will never not make my knees want to buckle.

John _. This room still smells of you. I want to rub the scent of you all over my body, but I hold back – you will do that for me when you get here. I kneel on your bed instead, rucking my toga up around my waist and pulling at the fabric of my loincloth. It feels so strange to expose myself here, only corners and corridors barring me from the open air. The feeling sets my blood alight in a way that I had never felt before you. You will be here soon, your hands where mine are, stroking up my bare thighs and between my legs, slick with oil. You make me feel so many wonderful things I sometimes wish the entire Empire could see._

If only so that they could all know that you are mine, and I am not sharing you with any of them. What is between us is for you and me alone. The rest of the Empire has no right to see you the way I do. The force with which I want to keep you would frighten me if I were not sure that I _will_ keep you.

_You will, John, always. I can no longer take pleasure from my own body without thinking of yours; even with three fingers inside myself as far as they will go what makes my flesh sing is the thought of removing them and replacing them with you._

Oh, Hercules, that is enough training for today. They all know I am fidgeting with impatience for the morning to end as it is, an early finish will earn me only amused smiles, and then I will be free to run to you as fast as I can, the hum of the last training exercise not yet faded from my blood.

_I have left the bed and sat calmly on the rickety chair by the cage bars by the time you arrive, panting as though you merely dropped sword and sprinted here. The expression on your face spurs me to my feet; hungry, desperate. You look as though you want to eat me alive, and Jupiter knows I am on board with that plan. I'd like to take a few more steps and meet you halfway, but you move with such determination that I can barely think it before you have scooped me into your arms without breaking stride and pressed me against the nearest wall._

I could not have helped it, Sherlock, not with you standing there with that fire in your eyes, fidgeting your hands as though you have been forcibly keeping them from yourself waiting for me. Your body feels so fragile and yet so deceptively strong, trapped there between me and the harsh stone wall, chest heaving, not trying in the slightest increment to fight me.

 _Why would I want to fight you? The things that you do to me like this, the crash of my body against the wall and the warmth of your chest – cold at my back and_ you _at my front – speaks to a part of me that was dormant until I met you. You breathe, your chest against my chest, your exhalations against my cheek, your hands holding me safe. Kiss me, John, I need you._

You have perfect lips, have I told you that before? Lush and sculpted into a perfect recurve like Cupid's golden bow. They feel exquisite against mine, shifting and parting to let me claim your beautiful mouth as my own. You squirm your body underneath me, trying to shift your hands from where I am pinning them against the wall. I feel as though I should let you move, but I cannot think of anything but the feel of your mouth, fiery and all-consuming.

_Your kisses make my knees turn to water until you are the only thing holding me up. Your hands leave mine against the wall, but your chest is still pressed so tightly against me that I stay upright, closing my eyes at the feeling of your fingers trailing up my thighs, pulling up my toga – I cannot breathe – much higher and you will discover what I have done while waiting for you._

Oh, Sherlock. Your eyelids flutter shut as I work my way up your legs and I can feel my own heart quickening when I find the firm swell of your bare backside instead of the folds of fabric I had expected. Your skin is smooth and warm and beautiful, and I want to bury myself inside it, wrap you all around me. I slide my fingers over your rear, down into the delicious dip between your cheeks and – _oh, Sherlock_. You are slick with oil and my fingers slide inside you _so_ easily. Just the thought of you sitting in this room with your own fingers stretching yourself for me forces a moan from my lips.

_Take me, John. I have thought of nothing else all day. I want you to hold me against the wall and press yourself inside me. You groan, a broken sound that tingles through my arms to my fingers, and drop your hands to begin tearing at your loincloth, pressing your hot lips and tongue to the crook of my shoulder. My own panting is harsh in my ears and throat as the fabric pools at your feet and then you fill me, slow and hot and luxurious, and your groan joins mine in bouncing off the walls and echoing through the room._

You moan my name, your voice low and resonant and beautiful. You know my love for your voice, Sherlock. It is red wine and honeycomb, inside on a sunny day, decadent and cosy. Your body stretches around me as though it is my home. It is a strange contrast, the inviting warmth of your body against the cold, rough edge of the cage walls, one that reminds me of both our reasons for doing this here. You are so different from this world, so much higher – and yet you wish to lower yourself into it because of me, smother yourself with it because of me.

 _John! I do not know what the thought was that made you tighten your grip on my hip and my shoulder and push mercilessly deeper but you are welcome to have it again – the back of my head hits the stone wall behind us with the force of your movements, harder and faster, just as I imagined. You steal the breath from my lungs and bite into my neck. You make my blood scream and my head spin. You fill my mind with_ you _. Gods, harder, John. As hard as you can, I have no desire to walk tomorrow._

If you insist, my Emperor. With each thrust you whimper so prettily, completely unrestrained. It is refreshing being able to hear the noises that you would make if we were not attempting to avoid a repeat of that first night I took you, when your screaming brought your brother running – although I think he may have better things to do now than listen for _your_ screams.

_Mention my brother's relationship with my former lanista again and this will reach a very different end than the one you have planned._

Forgive me. I must admit I find their relationship somewhat amusing, although the thought of them engaged in the sorts of activities I fantasise about with you is desperately unappealing.

 _Are you_ giggling _? John, endearing as that sound is it is hardly appropriate for – oh! Actually, that… the movements that your body makes when you laugh are oddly stimulating. Do that again._

You are so demanding. Evidently I must try harder to reduce you to incoherence.

 _Oh, John! Yes! When you bite and suck at my throat it diverts my entire attention – I can only feel_ you _, your lips and teeth, your hands holding me down, your erection sending sparks from my navel right through to my fingers and toes. It is unbelievably freeing, not needing to bite my own lips to hold back the noises that you pull from me as you know exactly how to send my body hurtling towards the crux of pleasure. Little as I want you to, you must slow down if you wish this to last –_

You do not think we will only do this once in here? The gladiators will not be back for several hours. You and I have been expecting this all morning, to drag it out much longer would be agony. Let go, Sherlock. _Bacchus,_ you are beautiful like this, do not hold back on me. There will be time for that later. Just let go, I have you.

_I love you._

And I love you. I love the transcendent expression on your face as you throw your head back – hitting it against the stone wall once again – and your arousal twitches and throbs against my stomach, expelling fluid and soiling the clothing I had forgotten we were wearing. You are so beautiful, _so_ perfect and still so hot and earthy and human, that I cannot help but follow you over the edge, drowning in the smell of your sweat and the sound of your shout.

_I can feel you pulsing inside me, feel your seed hot against the centre of me. The thought and feel of it exacerbates the pleasure already charging through every inch of my body like a rampaging warhorse. You are the only person who has ever made me feel like this – no fantasy that I had as a teenager inflames me to the extent that simply thinking of you does._

Your body slumps against mine – I support you, of course I do, though my own legs are trembling like mad, while you find your feet and gradually peel yourself away from me, lacing our fingers together. Of course, Sherlock, it is difficult to remove your toga with my hand attached to yours, but you are finding that out on your own.

 _Why do we_ wear _clothes? The things are so accursedly interfering. Imagine what things would be like if I could see all of you, all the time._

Without clothes, my dearest, you would have difficulty hiding your inappropriate reactions from everyone who glanced in your direction while you were watching the gladiators train.

_If everyone went without clothes, perhaps it would not matter._ _Juno, your bed is uncomfortable. How did you sleep like this every night and not break something?_

I must admit that having you wrapped around me makes the prospect seem easier.

_Do not dare to fall asleep now, John, I am not finished with you._

Thank Cupid's golden arrow, since I am not nearly finished with you either. Your skin feels so lovely, hot and damp with the sweat from your earlier pleasure sinking into its layers. I would be endlessly content if I could keep my hands on it forever, keep you draped across the side of me, keep your indescribable eyes fixed on me with that expression forever.

_Marry me, John._

Sherlock.

_Do not smile at me like that, I am serious. I want the Empire to know what you mean to me._

I cannot, Sherlock, you know that. It is not legal, for a start.

 _I am the Emperor. I can do anything I want to._ __  
  
And if the Emperor does not follow the laws of his Empire, why should the rest of his citizens? If you are seen to disregard it, everyone will use it as an excuse to break the law.

_If my citizens want to marry other men, I wish them all the happiness in the Known World. It is a stupid law._

But it is the law, and the Emperor must be seen to uphold it.

_Nero married three different men. Two of them he married as their bride._

Nero also rubbed a man's skin off with a fish as punishment for disturbing him. You are not seriously comparing yourself to Nero. Put that down, I am not about to change my mind simply because your fingers are inside me. Sherlock. We need to talk about this properly.

_As long as you do not put it completely off the table, for now I am content._

I would like nothing more than to marry you, my Sherlock, insane as you are. We will talk about it. Now put your hand back on my penis.

_Now who is being demanding._

Only you enjoy it when I am demanding, or we would not be here. Lie back and pass me that bottle; I want to own you, so brittle and godlike on my rickety slave's bed, surrounded by _gladiator_.

 _Surrounded by_ you, _John. I feel as though the air I breathe is you, as though you are in my lungs and my stomach and my very skin. Come closer to me, I want your chest on my chest, your lips on my lips. I want you pressed against every inch of me._

Of course, my love. Your body is so warm underneath mine, so comfortable. I love you, Sherlock, the taste of sweat under your jaw and the ticklishness you try to hide from me when I lick there, the feeling of your renewed arousal slick with oil throbbing against my own between our legs and the noises you make when I move my hips, the fact that I can do this forever and ever and ever.

_It still seems like something forbidden to imagine life with you, even though I have been living it for weeks now - each time I wake up I fear that you will not be there, and yet each time you are. I wanted you for so long that it is a habit now, that no matter how long I stare at your lips while you speak it is difficult to convince myself that I can kiss them as I wish. Faster, please, John, I need you, I love you, have me._

I have you, Sherlock, I have you - I have your arousal in my hand, pressed against my own, and it still baffles me how when I am with you my mood bounces between sentimental and desperate, between how much I love you and how much I want you, like they are one and the same thing. You are an enigma and a storm and I want to spend the rest of my life in the middle of you. Pick me up and never put me down.

 _Never, never. I love you. Put your arms around me, John, hold me. The feel of your body against mine in this way is so_ meant _, so pleasurable, I sometimes feel as though I could stay in this state forever, suspended, with you. As though the moment right before the climax could stretch on indefinitely, you and I trapped in a bubble of pleasure together. And then the bubble bursts, your fist around us tightens and I can feel it rushing over me, feel the moment when the pleasure blossoms, turns inside out, turns_ me _inside out. I can feel my body shaking, my arms and legs convulsing, my throat screaming – but most of all I can feel your arms around me, the weight of your body holding me down. You hold onto me until I can open my eyes and catch my breath, every inch of my body trembling with the threads of residual pleasure. Let me up now, John – it is your turn._

Your climax consumes you, every time, you give yourself up to it and let it take over your body and your mind so that when it is over you can only pant and watch me with your sharp eyes momentarily softened and your gorgeous plump lips parted slightly, the picture of temptation.

_You want my mouth? I can oblige that for you. I have thought about being on my knees in this room before._

Go on, then. I would never turn down an offer like that – and Venus knows it will not take long enough for me to worry about hurting your knees. I have thought about this as well – even naked and glistening with sweat and seed you look like something precious. On your knees like this you could be praying, except that your deity, the one to whom your worshipful upwards gaze is directed, is _me_. What did I do to deserve something like you, Sherlock?

_I often wonder the same thing about myself. I suppose that explains it._

Gods, my every inch of skin tingles. Your lips stretch so prettily around me, my rough hands buried in your beautiful damp hair, and the heat of your mouth feels _so incredible_ I can hardly breathe. Imagine what the public would think if they could see you like this, on your knees for one of your slaves with my hot, throbbing arousal buried halfway down your throat.

_And sizeable, John, you forgot that. I can feel the head of it throbbing against the back of my throat and the ache in my jaw from stretching around you already beginning. It is difficult to understand why things like this are considered so terrible when the feel of you pressed, soft and hard at the same time, between my tongue and the roof of my mouth is so pleasurable._

Your mouth never stops moving even when I am inside it; your tongue strokes the base of my erection and your mouth shifts, sliding up and down the length of me, firm and hot and fast and I cannot – Sherlock, please, I cannot hold on, I need – your fingers slide from my hip down between my legs, into the crease of my rear, and the added sensation pushes me over. I shout but I do not know if it has words, bent over, clutching desperately at your hair until it surely must hurt you, watching as your eyes slide closed and your throat works to swallow my essence, taking a part of me inside of you forever.

_There will already be a part of you inside of me forever, John. Sit down before you fall over. Catch your breath. I imagine the gladiators will begin to return soon._

Look at us. You have semen spread over your belly and sweat glistening in your hair, and I imagine I must look little better. We ought to wash properly, rather than just rinse ourselves down.

_We have yet to bathe together. You would like my personal baths, I cannot believe I have not taken you there before._

Your lips feel different against mine once they are plumped from sucking and biting. The mere idea of why they feel like this would have me aroused again if I did not feel as though I will _never_ be able to sustain another erection. Come on, then, you lunatic, a bath sounds wonderful.

_I love you, John._

_Jupiter,_ I love you, too. Your toga is crooked, my dearest – come here and let me rearrange your hair.

_Yes, mother. John… the head of the city lawkeepers came to see me this morning before training._

I am aware, I saw him as I was leaving. I became familiar with him when the lawkeepers were still looking into Mary's murder. What did he want?

_My help with another murder. You know I occasionally look into cases for them. A young man was murdered the night before last and they wish me to look at the body before it is cremated tomorrow._

Will you go?

_Of course. In fact, I was rather hoping you would accompany me. You are a gladiator, an expert on both combat and anatomy, you could be very useful. And… when we were investigating Mary's death, you said things… you reacted in ways that no-one else ever has. It was more fun with you there._

Setting aside, naturally, the fact that it was my _wife_ 's murder we were investigating, there were aspects of it that were enjoyable. Of course I will accompany you, if you wish it. A less personal case I believe I could thoroughly get behind.

_Thank you. I am certain that together we will be unstoppable._

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, consulting detectives.

_The first half of that sentence sounded perfect. The second half perhaps needed a little work._

I thought it had something of a ring to it.

_We laugh, and you take my hand, and it warms my heart as effectively as the sunlight that bathes us as soon as we step out of the cages together. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Whatever we choose to be, I believe I can get used to it._

* * *

THE END

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Two things.
> 
> First of all, thank you so much to everyone who took a personal interest in the development of this story: **Mirith Griffin, SplendidDust, chocolate fish, CaskettFanGirl, thebookworm214** , and **Pati79** and **consultingfeels** on tumblr for including this story in their WIP update notifications, and to the incredible **nikerra** on LJ, who is in the midst of translating this story into Russian (link to come!) Thanks to everyone who has been there reading and reviewing right from the start or supported us along the way - I heartily apologise yet again for the embarrassingly long time it takes to update, it should not have taken us over a year to finish this - **ladypredator, skeptic7, rifleman_s, snogandagrope, Batik, MyriadProBold, LadyGinger, iseult1124, 107602, enrapturedreader** and **SrtaWalker** on AO3, **Artemis Fortune, BookWoman17NerdyMom, power0girl, Dinosaurs-go-rawr, Eby, xXthenextbookwormXx, CowMow, HoneyandChai, Quiet Time, tardisinthegc** , and **sKyLaR KnIgHt** on fanfictiondotnet. You have made this story an absolute joy.
> 
> Secondly, I already have planned another sort of historical epic to replace this one (just me this time, no **Mr_CSI** ). Yesterday I had the privilege of attending a lecture from Stephen Orgell, renowned Shakespeare scholar, on the eroticism of the boy actors who used to play women. It was absolutely fascinating stuff and I am not looking into the fact that I came out of it determined to write a Johnlock Lord Chamberlain's Men AU wherein Sherlock is one of those men who played women. My dilemma is which Shakespeare to make the crux of the story. I was thinking _Othello_ , even though I've studied it extensively at school and uni and am a bit bored of it, or _Troilus and Cressida_ , which I adore but I'm not sure serves the purpose of bringing John and Sherlock together the way I want it to. The point of my mentioning this here is that if anyone has any suggestions I'd be delighted to hear them. Thanks so much!
> 
> Otherwise, thank you to everyone who reviewed, favourited, alerted or even just read this story. It has become the work that I am most proud of, and changed the relationship between myself and **Mr_CSI** in ways I probably should have expected but completely didn't. I'm not quite sure what we're going to do now that it's over...
> 
> -thisisforyou!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] for Mr_CSI & thisisforyou's "Infamia"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3668853) by [livloveel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/livloveel/pseuds/livloveel)




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